Into the Sea · nothing makes sense
I don’t care who you are, I don’t care what you do for a living. I generally don’t give a flying fuck about you. If you intend to talk to me you’re going to have to come up with something more interesting than ‘So … what do you do?’ or the ever ubiquitous appearance of ‘What music do you like?’
Yes, sure, questions of that sort can get a conversation started, but — Jesus, man. I don’t need a fucking complete biography to talk to you and you don’t need one from me either. Let’s just goddamn talk. We’ll find out shit about each other as we go along. Where’s the adventurer’s spirit in asking questions and getting answers?
Questions and answers is not what it’s about at all. It’s about how you get to the answers. The shortest distance from A to B is a straight line. No one likes a straight line when you can have a swerving pendulum rocking back and forth like a spirograph creating fractal patterns and meticulously drawn out spirals converging on a center point that makes us feel like we’re falling into the abyss of a moment.
Oh, so you didn’t actually want to have a conversation? You were just chewing the fat while waiting for someone you actually know to pass by? Fuck you. You attempt to come off as personable but you are in fact stealing my goddamn time. I’d rather sit here alone being a deaf-mute than pass idle chatter around like a bacteria-infected bong filled with the headless musings and mewlings of the desperately insecure.
What I do? I’m a rocket scientist and I like music that comes hurtling out of speakers at supersonic speed with the hertz rate of barbed wire — the kind that reduces your ears to flabby appendages made from rotting minced meat.
Life isn’t a Great Adventure. It’s a series of random events based on an infinite number of random actions taken by over six billion random humans hurtling through space. Sometimes these actions converge en masse and before you know it there’s a war going on.
These people you glorify and canonize are not stars — they are moons, mirroring the flash of the cameras; they grow faint the further away from the flashing they get. True stars are brilliant glowing beings, always illuminated no matter where they are or who they’re with; even in death they keep shining, and their glow will keep for centuries before they fade.
I had that one line. It came to me riding the bus on my way home from work. People were scurrying to the doors, long before the bus reached the designated stop. As if it was imperative to be ready. To throw out of the bus as soon as the doors opened. As if they would only be open for a split second, locking anyone hesitant or idle inside never to be released from that huge, rolling, red coffin.
«And this is the note that will work,» I thought.
It happens every day and I am constantly amazed. Not by the predictability of man, rather the illogical fear of suddenly being encased in molasses, powerless to unstick themselves from their seats in time to vacate the bus. The harebrained schemes of mice and men are always cause for concern.
And this is the note that will work.