what do you do when no one’s around? this is not the usual scolding to always act like grandma’s watching. the motivation behind this exploration sleeps more with the mystery behind a fallen tree. whether or not it made a sound is a surface-level focus with a meteoric pit hidden beneath. the true, mind-bogglingly difficulty is assessing its existence. for if it didn’t make a sound, what did it do? was it doing anything? was it even alive or was it waiting for someone to rekindle its flame?
when i’m alone, i’m driven to create. i often fail and end up reading or, worse than that, passively viewing six-minute video clips while engorging an abused stomach with carbohydrates. but the war is alive and well. it’s not my intention to be an instrument of other’s actions. at least not full-time.
confronting relaxation and actively choosing to draw from the soul instead — that’s what i’m after. it’s partially about productivity and the dance performed with its tendrils to win a sense of accomplishment. but more crucially, my shun of downtime is rooted in the pursuit of my goal to unite people together. which sounds counterintuitive since there’s actually zero other human beings in the vicinity. however, that’s why it’s the target and not the dart.
each morsel of effort to produce music grows from a passionate well of healing waters. not only does the process soothe the storm within, it also penetrates the surrounding hurricanes. i cannot stress how vital it is that people at least are given the opportunity to connect to the messages wrapped beneath rhymes and synths. each action has an equal and opposite reaction — as it pours out through my muse, i too intend for it to trespass yours. without that conversation, music is no longer human. without that relationship, the back and forth transmission, it’s nothing more than a static receiver, or an unheard speaker.
one troubling thought is if my counterparts know they have an instrument like this. we all contain a brilliancy of wisdom and potential, but do we exercise its muscles? i fear for the creatures ridden by bed sores and the organisms running without oils of personal expression. the euphoria of creation rushes through veins like narcan, saving me from overdoses of depression and outrage. how do other fallen soldiers handle their amputations? what do you do with your unrest?
exercise used to be my outlet. but the thirst strengthened. then it was smashing down on drums. but the relational cravings longed for release from masked time signatures. so here i am, combining the entirety of my neural depths in an attempt to soothe this churning burn while simultaneously offering a release to close relatives of my angst.
there is blood family, and there is a family of experience. i’m tight with my platelet sisters but yearn for the day when i touch more of those who scrape the bottom of the ocean, doomed as an urchin yet surviving homo sapien.
we dark delilahs are a misunderstood collective of extravagant beauty.
don’t forget it.
– D K T