Mind to fingers to page with no edits…

by synapticdisunion

I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.

Those are the words that sometimes pop into my head, for whatever reason.  Reason has nothing to do with it, frankly.  Reason, though I aspire to be reasonable, I am rarely reasonable at all, because I am emotional, feeling, drifting, listening, I am human, after all.

Whatever music lies within me lies to me daily about how it might escape me into the world at large.  It remains pent up within me, singing, emoting, driving my thoughts toward some end I cannot see.

Where is the ending, where is the beginning, where am I now that I’ve drifted into this conflagration afterlife of sorts?  What becomes me?  What do I become afterward?

The music bounces in my head, grinding, churning, epic ballads and grinding rhythms.  Sinner, singer, song writer.  Standing arms wide while the music flows out of my mind with the force of a storm wind.  Nice though it flows my head keeps it inside and doesn’t let the world see…I abide within my own world of sound and fury, which ends up signifying nothing.  Nothing at all.