On Becoming

7, 6, 5

I pull the clean, fresh air of the universe in through my nose. I can smell sea salt, wet blades of grass, and loss all at once. Nature surrounds me, but only physically. Around the intricate folds of my brain is the deadly world I have created for myself; that which consists of materialistic, planetary matters. It’s the world we have constructed for ourselves as a collective race. I wonder what it must be like to meditate. To lose yourself to the wind’s soft harmony. To awaken your body with the sun and sink into sleep with it as well. Are we even capable, at this point? I sometimes feel that technology could be a phase. We may reach a point in worldly development where to go forwards entails stepping backwards and reconnecting with our roots. It’s no surprise that solar-powered cars are for the rich.


I’m trying to hold it all in. My thoughts, my breath. I can hear my heart thud against my ribcage; it begs for release. It yearns for poetry, art, enlightenment. This is the universe that lies beyond mankind’s vision. It is the universe that does not rely on social hierarchy or materialism to propel itself, but rather on imagination. Creativity. Storytellers and graffiti artists are held in utmost regard, for they have mastered the craft of expression. The relationship between the artist’s internal and external world is a most fluid and active one. For this reason it is no longer said that either life imitates art or that art imitates life. Rather, it is known that life and art are one in the same. They both create, nurture, and provide purpose to all life forms.

3, 2

The sound of my heart pounding within its cage is getting louder. The psychotic writer in me starts forming a rhythmic verse to this desperate beat. Perhaps all the sounds in the world we are confined to exist in are desperate. Thuds and screams and jingles and whooshes, all begging our ears to question their existence. To question our existence. Sound requires a certain surface for particles to bounce off of and thus generate frequencies, so what happens in outer space? I suppose one could scream for quite a while before anything is heard. You wouldn’t exactly be screaming, then. Just producing nothingness in an abyss of more nothingness. How depressing that must seem to the average thinker.


Release. My heart is finally slowing down after its long and arduous race. I challenged my lungs as well, and because of that I proceed to ready my breathing. I’m still here. Wherever here is. The earth is stretching out beneath me, the sky and its curious clouds above me, and my ambitious aura around me. I drape my dreams for an alternate universe on my body and soul like an evening gown. My artistic purpose must be known so that others on similar journeys are empowered. So that the hierarchy of materialistic merit is destroyed. So that we stop using terms like “broke musician”. So that we stop equating having less in money to having less in life. So that we unlearn all the ridiculous, discriminatory ideals that have been etched into our system. We must arise from our creative caskets to regain the world we lost. So that every silence is meditative, not awkward. So that conversations with substance are enriching, not tiring. But above all, so that we understand how insignificant we truly are. The sun will rise and set regardless. And the wind will carry its soft harmony whether or not we listen.


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