Confused-Shoes

I close my eyes and decide to write about something close to my heart.

In 2005, I stoppped writing poetry in favor of music. Or, I tried to let go of creating poems in order to write songs. Of course, though the songs must have lyrics that are essentially poetry, it was clear that I was fast ceasing to be an amateur poet and rapidly becoming a minor songwriter. Though the pen remains, the guitar was becoming the weapon of choice.

However, I soon discovered that I could not harness the strength nor the beauty of the guitar as much as I can with the pen. Furthermore, it seemed that my musician friends were not really too keen on using and/or expanding the songs I have written - this I say without any hint of bitterness or malice. It was just that I discovered that I am really no musician at all, and I have learned ti accept this fact as one of my fundamental limitations as a person.

The sad part of it all was that there seemed to be a price to pay. Having deserted my poetic muse, she no longer wanted to accept me back. I tried to pick up where I left, pen and notebook and the silent view of houses and trees from my room, but there were no more nice words and lovely sounds to write about. Her graces departed, I found myself struggling pitifully to regain my composure as an amateur poet. Despite the stream of ideas and possible inspirations I discovered that none of these could ever materialize. Alas, I was a broken writer, a man whose poetry has completely departed him. I was left with only the copies of the poems of my youth, the haunting prospect that there will be no more poetry for me in the years ahead never leaving my head.

Poetry is a gift that once squandered could never be regained. I seemed to accept this, rather sadly. And since life was too brief, I knew I had to move on. No poetry nor music to create, I then became like a wanderer, completely lost and lonely. All that was left in me was the desire, but not the skill. The potential but not the ability. The promose but not the possibility.

Days went on and i soon found a compromise - I would just have to settle with poetry and music which are not mine and not of my own creation. Thus I became entangled with pop songs of all sorts and genres and origins. What I could not write about myself I sought out to listen to; since I could not write about my broken heart and listened to some band, hoping that their words and music could best speak the feelings I have. feelinsg towards certain things, certain people, certain thoughts. And it seemed weird and wonderful at the same time, how commercially motivated creative artists could perfectly hit sensitive spots in one’s  heart, tugging at the heartstrings, singing songs that make one feel that you experienced the very things they talk about yourself. That is how it goes with me.

Well I am just sad because when I was young I was so delighted at the prospect that I could have been famous for my words. In the end, at the dusk of my youth, I quickly learned that this is just a feeble fantasy. I am mediocre and so are my abilities, and, like the nameless crowd that crawls along the grim days of society, our hearts are just consumers in a materialistic world. The language that our souls could best recognize and speak is a language that is not of our own choosing, but developed by publishers and programmers, mixers and sound engineers, arrangers, composers, conductors, artists, matinee idols, band members and the like. Of course, this is not saying that I have everything against musicians. I believe that musicians are blessed people, and I myself could never be one. But still, no musician is free when music is made for the purpose, or when music begets the purpose, of commercial appeal.

I let go of my poetry in order to write music and when I found out I could not, everything vanished and the creativity in me died completely. Now I must depend on professionals to do the job for me, make my heart sing.

In the end, there is really nothing else I can do but listen to the music. From the machine, out into the air, into my head, speaking to my heart.

Then my heart sings it out and my soul understands. Like a cigarette, we inhale smoke and exhale smoke,a nd we could relax. Music we catch and music it is we sing to comfort our weary lives. Pity that we could not create for ourselves how to feel better.

I listen to the music.