untitled lilac

i am reading back over my blog here and i keep finding myself so inspiring... what inspires me, perhaps, is not an other person but the very same me that i am, or at least, was.

this is great news!


listening: HTRK - psychic lilac

you know that i got mood swings that i got no control of

never-before-heard instrumental track and a rough, skeletal sketch of "chinatown style," one of my favorite HTRK songs of all time.

now that i remember that, i am going to listening to: HTRK - "chinatown style"

how is this track so great? everything doesn't fit, it seems like a randomly assembled assortment of sounds; intermittent bass pumps that seem to have no god. swirling harmonics with divine intent; jonnine's voice deep yet soft, and gentle... she comes in last, like the final blessing on this track. her voice from one becomes a chorus of echoes that mouth words in inconsistent waves. sound that undulates and unfolds, a painting being stroked and smudged into existence deliberately, and thoughtfully. it is casual, nonchalant, without added meaning. like a person walking down the street. he or she has purpose, but is also completely unable to escape the indulgent and tragic whims of the universe, of this thing we call life.

the most purpose a person can possibly have is completely self-made. one must create their own purpose, and their own beauty. their own-shaped path through time.

this is what music makes me feel. when i listen to music, the doors of wisdom seem opened up to me... a wisdom that explains in careful detail the usual mysteries of my every day life. i become aware of the existence of frameworks, the background rather than the fore, the space beyond just the sky.


yesterday evening i was on my way to mindlessly browse social media when i became informed of the happenings in paris, france. it was strange to hear that something so grandiose and vital was occurring right at that very moment; hundreds of peoples' lives had been turned upside down forever in a mere instant, all while i laid in my bed possessing, honestly, the absolute least amount of worries a person could possibly have. i would have never known what had happened had i not turned on my computer. so many people are experiencing excruciating pain that they have never felt before; a pain they had never anticipated and for which in all their life they had not prepared. out of all the things that regularly confound me, and out of all the daunting alleged truths about this universe and about ourselves, the mass murder of innocent people at the hands of an ordinary human seems to be the greatest mystery of all. it is the greatest, most horrific manifestation of what humans are, at their core. we are not happy and safe things. we are not fun-loving, gentle, or kind. we actually are the beasts of the wild, but only if those beasts were ten thousand times more cruel and heartless. our hearts are imaginary bags of dust; we thrive on violence and crave destruction. is it sadness? is it meaninglessness? is it the complete and utter absence of love?

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