An esoteric introduction

So, I have finally given in. There is something almost therapeutic about committing perishable words to canvas. Setting thoughts into words; given form and substance. Almost as if by that very action those thoughts are validated, become somehow more real, and are set free to rage in the empty air. It is also comforting at perhaps those selfsame thoughts might be read. Perhaps that someone might gain pleasure from them, or that someone might understand the futility of the entire ironic exercise.

To borrow Kant, "I write, thus I am". For I am no musician, composing delicate song which ascends to heaven on gossamer wings, nor am I a painter, creating worlds and perspectives on common canvas too beautiful for simple comprehension, I am no orator, whose golden words drip honey and worse. I am a writer. A story teller. And thus, I write. Yes, I write music, but the words speak louder than the guitar riffs, yes I am an artist, though the pictures do not speak as much as simple prose, mayhap to me, a picture speaks less than a thousand words. Maybe none at all.

Fragile, these words are. Yet I've come to rely on them near exclusively to the exception of all else. Yet within this, my own chosen form of expression, I feel trapped, constrained. Railing against language's own cumbersome nature, its inadequacies and fallacies. Meaning laden yet devoid. How does one express that yearning? That deep seated wanting on such a primal level that it defies the cognitions which we have constructed and set in place to differentiate us from our biological nature? Yet somehow that yearning is much more. Almost as if your whole being, physically, emotionally, cognitively, sexually, spiritually... was somehow wound together in a single chord of yearning, like Jeff Buckley's 'secret chord'. That is how I feel. She put down the phone barely an hour ago, and I yearn for her. I miss her so much that 'miss' is a word insufficient to express how I feel.

How does one describe perfectly the experience of holding someone close to you? You can't. No words can completely describe, no picture can fully paint the complexity of such a singular experience. The raging emotions. The physicality. The sensations of skin on skin sending impulses to the brain. Every neuron firing randomly. Neurochemicals coursing through your brain. Endocrine system going into overdrive. The experience of warmth. The deep seated emotions coming to the surface. Memories triggered. Respiration quickening. Automatic cognitions activating. The feel of her hair as you run your fingers through it. The yearning for completeness satisfied for a single moment. Music swells into a crescendo on the outer edge of hearing. Distinct but indefinable. Sensuality. Love. The words fail. There are no need for words. None can describe. Nothing can quite fathom the depths of such a simple action.

I miss her every day. Every minute. Every breath I take sometimes brings me close to tears. As much as I let people in, as much as I open up to people, as much as I empathise. There is that part in my soul (and I believe I have a soul) that only she and He knows. A part that never sees the sun, but is active every sleepless night. Haunting. Like a forgotten shade come to gather its dues. It is easier to forget. Easier to not think. Not believe. But I find myself incapable. After half a lifetime of drowning out the inner voice with wilful ignorance, with alcohol, with the distractions of the flesh, with video games and like-minded friends, I find that I can no longer drown out that voice. I can no longer countenance the way I have not lived (or have lived) my life, if I can be said to have lived it at all.

Strange how things so often boil down to a single person. A single girl in my life. 5000 miles away in a another land. Where I was born and raised, and where my roots settle still. Maybe it's all about her. Maybe I've come to realise that no other love in my life has meant this much to me. And all the other people I have said 'I love you' (such simple frail words, yet laden with so many levels of meaning!) to, I confess I have claimed so in error. And even if things end, even if things never work out, I know that I could never, ever love someone as much as I love her now. Not close. Not in the same way. It's not going to be quite the same love. Colour me jaded. Call me obsessed. I care not for the fleeting terminology.

It's all about her, and I know it.

So here’s my rant. My introduction. A sliver of my soul. My inadequate words. Whether more are forthcoming I cannot say.