Memorial
Balance. It's all about balance. And I acknowledge the fact it's all about balance, as tension builds up, and the brass start making their way, walking on the lavish deep red carpet set by the stacatto of the strings. Voice is about to fall over in any moment...
AND SO IT DID! Drama and pure emotion exploding and overwhelming my senses. It's been a long time since I hadn't got any goosebumps from music. Tears come down easily, but they stand for a different feeling, a feeling that tells more about me than about music itself. Goosebumps are about pure sensuality, that's why skin is aroused by its immediate stimulation. It's as if an invisible thread would be stitched from the initial chord, all the way through the repetitive motif, and directly into epidermis, rooted deep into the skin, breaking the muscle, and making it bleed; but since it's not material, all there is left to see is a row of pores erected. Final exposure of harmony. Passion is successfully restored.
I am scared, I'm not gonna deny it. What if passion dies through intellectual taming? What will there be left for me to hold in my hands? What if life looses its charm by placing its wilderness inside the frame of understanding? But, on the other hand, what if it gains additional glow? It might add up to it, I might add up to it, it might add up to me. It's a risk I oughta take. And so I'll face passion with my bare hands, take it just as it comes, and lead it up to its ultimate consequences. Who knows?
AND SO IT DID! Drama and pure emotion exploding and overwhelming my senses. It's been a long time since I hadn't got any goosebumps from music. Tears come down easily, but they stand for a different feeling, a feeling that tells more about me than about music itself. Goosebumps are about pure sensuality, that's why skin is aroused by its immediate stimulation. It's as if an invisible thread would be stitched from the initial chord, all the way through the repetitive motif, and directly into epidermis, rooted deep into the skin, breaking the muscle, and making it bleed; but since it's not material, all there is left to see is a row of pores erected. Final exposure of harmony. Passion is successfully restored.
I am scared, I'm not gonna deny it. What if passion dies through intellectual taming? What will there be left for me to hold in my hands? What if life looses its charm by placing its wilderness inside the frame of understanding? But, on the other hand, what if it gains additional glow? It might add up to it, I might add up to it, it might add up to me. It's a risk I oughta take. And so I'll face passion with my bare hands, take it just as it comes, and lead it up to its ultimate consequences. Who knows?
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