I’ll find some meaning in having, at this moment, no other responsibility than playing music for sleepy. I wouldn’t do it unless I both loved the person for whom I’m playing music and playing music itself.
You’ll find me older today, as I feel that I should apologize for my absence. The truth is I’ve always been here, in this vortex of emotional turmoil underpinned by a quest for philosophical meaning. I’ve just needed to age. I’ve needed to grow. I’ve needed to think that I have something better to offer than my silence.
I’m hammered, and of course I wonder if I say this to evoke a confessional sort of tone so as to tell myself that I’m digging deep as I write. Am I? I don’t mean to, no. I’m just hammered right now, because there are wednesdays when you must, or wednesdays when you do, or days when you just do that, and there’s no better thing to do. It’s just like that. It’s a half assed justification for any lack of quality or coherence in my writing, yeah, I’ll admit to that.
Oh, it’s thursday now. Got that? The time that passed since I started drinking until I started writing? Anyway…
I guess I’m an adult now. It’s about time. It’s what I’d like to write about anyway. I used to play music for people mindlessly, uncaring of what it meant for them or for me, but I’m an adult now. Playing music goes beyond the hedonistic and the liminal for me now. I intend to play the music I intend to listen to now (it’s not just that music must be played to fill a void). I’m all grown up now, I make my choices now.
Nah, but I always cared. It’s more like now it’s about knowing I have but a limited moment. I have to be more important now. But I’m readier. I’m more knowledgeable or dumberer, either one. Either I chose my battles better or I am more stubborn. What’s gone is gone and I don’t need a reminder of what’s gone as might pertain that fire that fueled whatever burns no more.
I’m nowhere near wise, but I’m back to being opinionated. I had to feel it was all relative and context dependent so that I’d be non-judgmental and accepting of everything and everyone. But you see, it’s deadly to think that way when you’re numb, because then it’s all too easy to become a nihilist. There are things that are right, rarely of their own right, rather because they make for a slight betterment of things. It takes time to discern any of these, obvious though they may be. I will speak of thee.
Playing music for sleepy is not the same as playing for no one else, you see. She writhes, she curls, she dreams and she moans. She’s here as I dispose of my words upon a page, unbeknownst to her. I am responsible for imagery and imagining possibilities beyond the mere image of hunger for meaning and expression. It’s gotta be lovely.
Well, I choose for it to be lovely. I choose for it to be meaningful too. I went for Jeff Buckley soon after she snored, for when have the dead done any wrong? Particularly those who still look pretty as ghosts. You might think anything goes when you play music for someone who sleeps, but I take the fact that they can’t tell me to hit next or be quiet as a huge responsibility, for I will inevitably inhabit the soundscape of their drunken slumber. We’re never as helpless as in our dreams, for we we must follow them with our eyes closed.
For all the repetition and the examination, our lives can’t help their existence as first drafts upon the sphere of will and circumstance.
I hope sleepy didn’t mind having a soundtrack to her rest.