Music, this wonderfully weird arrangement of myriad sounds, is entertainment. At least on its shimmering surface.
But as Sisyphus' ordeal describes, we have our own burdens to carry up the mountain. To aid in this endeavor, we each have our own crutches - some find god, some work ceaselessly, some consume drugs, some sulk and some, who have exhausted all of their own resources, choose to not push that boulder anymore. There is solace in the fact that this fickle fabric of space and time that has wrapped each of us in cosmic causality, there are some of us, enough of us, to use music as a crutch to be able to lift each step.
This is not an admission of hardship or a wail against the saints of fate, far from it. This is an admission, if impotent, of the gratitude that this, our tribe, is able to move on, thanks to the propulsive force of this music. To some it is a friend who does not judge. To some, it is a surrogate parent, for when a soothing hand on a fevered brow was needed, but none a warm body found. This is acknowledgement, that we consider ourselves worthy of Mother Nature's blessing to carry on, drawing sustenance from her bosom - where many grew cold by the wayside.
With as much wayward grace as I can purchase, I say thanks. Tomorrow, even if the sounds stop playing out loud, they will remain with us in our hearts, our candles in dark corners. Reminding us, that we can swim in the rivers of nihil and still draw breath.
But as Sisyphus' ordeal describes, we have our own burdens to carry up the mountain. To aid in this endeavor, we each have our own crutches - some find god, some work ceaselessly, some consume drugs, some sulk and some, who have exhausted all of their own resources, choose to not push that boulder anymore. There is solace in the fact that this fickle fabric of space and time that has wrapped each of us in cosmic causality, there are some of us, enough of us, to use music as a crutch to be able to lift each step.
This is not an admission of hardship or a wail against the saints of fate, far from it. This is an admission, if impotent, of the gratitude that this, our tribe, is able to move on, thanks to the propulsive force of this music. To some it is a friend who does not judge. To some, it is a surrogate parent, for when a soothing hand on a fevered brow was needed, but none a warm body found. This is acknowledgement, that we consider ourselves worthy of Mother Nature's blessing to carry on, drawing sustenance from her bosom - where many grew cold by the wayside.
With as much wayward grace as I can purchase, I say thanks. Tomorrow, even if the sounds stop playing out loud, they will remain with us in our hearts, our candles in dark corners. Reminding us, that we can swim in the rivers of nihil and still draw breath.
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