The song of white noise

Am i seeking redemption for all the time i’ve lost? Years upon years of unrefined skill. It weighs heavy on my heart. But maybe that’s exactly how it supposed to be. Getting lost, aimlessly drifting through episodes of pleasure and beauty only to find pain at its end. And that’s when my reality’s truth struck.

Some people physically travel the entire world to find that place they can call “home”, while others scour its beauty by scrolling through websites. I believe that neither method is worse or better, since the result will be the same. I’ve found my heart, my “home” between the lines you read, even if at the beginning i didn’t see it. At 13, before my entire world came crashing down on my head, i found the sad, tragic and deep tone of the writers taught at my school to be soothing. It was as if i could understand a hidden message in all the texts combined: “Can you see this beauty in all the ugliness that surrounds it?” It felt more like a challenge, than an invitation. By reading emotions, i began to feel them and even though i had nothing to say, my words roared on paper. I guess to some extent Bukowski was right. Emotions, good or bad, need to be set free. It is the artist’s responsibility to shape these emotions into something beautiful, so others may be inspired and guided.

Shortly after my emotions came to life, she, the muse, made her presence known to me. I could hear her in moments of complete silence and focus, when the white noise of my room would become deafening, whispering in my ear creative ideas at a rate so fast that they would resemble the chittering of birds. I can see now why Van Gogh chose to cut off his ear, even if science-oriented people prefer to place the blame for this action on depression and dementia. A muse’s song can become maddening to the point of suicide. It’s no wonder why in mythology, there is a connection between muses and sirens and why a siren’s song is believed to have caused sailors to jump overboard to their deaths. It must have been the white noise created by the waves, rhythmically splashing against the vessel. The same effect can be observed in Chinese water torture, where simple drops of water drive the subject to madness. But then again, there are the buddhist monks, meditating under a waterfall or close to a body of flowing water without having any apparent mental breakdowns. I’m guessing that, as with all things in this Universe, even something as simple as rhythm can be harmful for an untrained solitary mind over the course of a lifetime.

So, in the end, i don’t need to redeem the time i’ve supposedly lost, since that time wasn’t mine to use in a more productive manner from the very beginning. I was just chasing after an ideal illusion. Chasing the rhythm of the behemoth that is called society, instead of listening to my own. I believe that what kills us more than anything else in this world, is the choice of forgetting who we are. We play, we struggle and dance with others, in a desynchronized symbiotic rhythm until all we can hear is the song of white noise being played in solitude. Is there even a choice? Or is this just a colorful destined journey we are all individually part of? Sometimes, there is no right answer… only the answer you choose to find right.