I am but a dissonant in the phrasal resolution of a most beautiful song. Decisions must be the curse of the devil upon the human condition, for nature never needs to make a decision, nature operates solely upon a cosmic whim. I wish I could too, and I probably will, since there are no right or wrong decisions– only good or bad decisions, in reflection, upon the affect of time.
The world is cruel, wretched, and unsympathetically beautiful. If there is a draw on my heart-strings it is of that damnedest despair, whence every feather draws blood and every rose bud is bitter, where the tug is unpleasant, but the recoil is music, a bloody finger on a lute that produces the most incomprehensible of sounds. Damned am I when the day comes that my music speaks in a tongue I no longer understand. I know the day is coming, as I see more and understand less already, aloof as I have become, a stranger in my own home. Yet while the only door I encounter might be locked, and the percussion of my frantic thumping upon the hard wood frame might seem musical on the other side, the bruises upon my knuckles are of a pain that only I will ever understand. It is that pain that is music, and it is that music that is beautiful. Should I wish, with all my might, that the door be unlocked, it is not hope that I channel, but merely want. Hope is not in front of me, hope can never take the place of desire. Hope is merely reassurance: a locked room with an open window.
I am going home, and I might hate myself for it, but at least I will be home.