The melody rises, falls, drifts, evolves. A second movement. A third. Pounding the slopes and amalgamating into a canon ball.
But the rhythm is static. Stale. And despite the constance, the beat is soon forgotten. Because of the constance, the canon is uninspired–never fired–and ignored. A buzzing in the bulbs that becomes interesting only when it stops.
This is my song.
For 32 years, the melodies of my creative lust have been bound by the rhythm of wanderlust. I fall in love with my own ideas long enough only to sacrifice my fidelity for the next artistic seductress. Never long enough–nor deep enough, nor committed enough–to bear fruit. A buzzing in the bulbs that cannot decide on a nectar.
In short, I have produced nothing. Nothing that bears the whole of me.
I’ve lately spoken to many about burning to be “one thing.” Let me be clearer: I dream of focus. I dream of identity. I dream of completeness.
I dream of fire.
To be consumed. To perceive the flame’s intention. To burn the whole damn world to the ground. A naked landscape where the unwilling and oblivious are laid as bare as ashes, with no truth left to see but what the fire exposed. What the fire wanted. What I wanted.
But I can’t. How can I? My wiring is frayed, I’m wired to buzz. To spark, never catch. The rhythm is deafening. A buzzing in the bulbs that becomes interesting only when it stops.
And the band plays on.