Empty
I am not full of music. I used to think that I was, but I realize my folly now. I used to think that, that I am full of music and that I only lacked the means of expression. I used to think that I was full of ideas, full of images, full of love, full of compassion, full of emotion, ready to be bestowed at the world. That I was warm and understanding; ready to be given at whomever asked.
But I’m empty. I am devoid of music, without love and out of compassion. I am empty. I have no emotion that a Hollywood movie cannot express ten-fold. I am empty of love that a rural anecdote can portrait. I am out of love. I am devoid of love. I am empty. I am without art. I used to think that I have art in computers, but that’s only in absence of real expertise. I am empty. I am hollow. I am a hollow shell. I want to curl up on the side of a seldom-trodden path and die.
No candle burns for me. No shrine will be erected in my name. I am empty. I am empty. I am drained.
“I’m deranged.” There is no funny thing here. No secrets, and no energy. Just an empty, hollow shell, devoid of everything that is good.
People might disagree, but people don’t know about the darkness and pain that is in my heart. I am empty, hollow, devoid and mediocre. I let down values that I must uphold and preach with my actions those that I must devalue. I am empty.
No sorrow, no life, no love, no war. No high, no low. No sun, no openning. No lock, no key. No passion, no emotion.
Stuck in mediocrity. Stuck in emptiness. Stuck in depression. Stuck in life. Stuck in the middle with no one. Where is Q and U? Where is “stuck in the middle with you”?
Memory is fading. Memory is failing. Technique, fluency and proficiency are gone. Philosophy and thought are gone. No meory remains. Forgotten forks in life, splinters in the back of mind, itches in brain are all that remain. Stuck, hollow and alone.
No way forward, all kinds of way back. Useless attachments, binding attachments, loves that hurt only the second party, loves that cannot be broken and forgotten. A nomad in my head, unsure of where to go and where to return. Bewildered; beaten and betrayed by forty-two thousand petty gods.
Dark, disheveled and disturbed.
I see long hours of listening to Pink Floyd is paying back VERY well.
go on.
Add to that a serious case of “Johnnie Walker wisdom running high,” and you’ll have your answer.
Interestingly, when I wrote these spectacular rubbish, neither was the music Pink Floyd nor the drinks Johnnie Walker!