The Saddest Music in the World
I listened to Angels of the Universe last night. I had been feeling like I was in a complete creativity slump (especially regarding my writing) and it was really meant as something that would make me fall asleep. I’ve been going through a bit…we all do. Cinchel did fall asleep and I sobbed and purged these words, writing in the dark.
I’m not creative or original. I’m not talented. Every part of me; every thought, cell, chemical, exists in some other better form in someone else. And, in this way, I am everyone and yet completely alone. I’d like to cry but even that is not an individual gesture, just a single emotional action shared by many. There is nothing left in the world that is meaningful anymore. It is all absurdity and yet we still suffer in vain to make sense of it. There is nothing left that is sacred. Even our own DNA can be mass produced.
What I want to be has no cells. What I truly want to be is a cloud children look up to in the sky and point towards. Maybe even an amorphous mass that slightly resembles a jumprope.
(now playing: Angels of the Universe: Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson with Sigur Rós)
