Holocene

                                Not a note perfect, not a harmony melodic, not a lyric profound.  Limited in my life experience, I flounder.  I can pick along to the scrolling notes on the page, follow the crinkled scribblings in my notebook as I lay upon my bed.  I know I have nothing to preach, nothing to offer the world of music.  In my own head I visualize what I write as a nebulous arrangement of planets, following their divine trajectory with no variation or inspiration.  Still I write and I play.  In sparse occasion the planets will align, coaxing me to play further, hoping to achieve the same celestial feeling.  When my skin crawls and my pulse accelerates from my own doing, I know I have created music.  It’s a drug like any other.  Runners extract a high from pain and torment; junkies push euphoria into their veins through a needle.  I draw my high from the eclectic beauty of song.  On off days when my fingers blister and my voice goes hoarse, I find satisfaction scouring the internet for Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes and Dispatch hoping their familiar exoticism offers me my fix.  I feel crushed underneath my own failure, yet grateful to the artists who describe my feelings in ways I can’t.

Bon Iver- Holocene:

…and at once I knew I was not magnificent
strayed above the highway aisle
(jagged vacance, thick with ice)
I could see for miles, miles, miles