“We are glorious! We will no longer be afraid. Only through pain can you achieve your greatness! The impure are the untouched, the unburned, the unslain. Those who have not been torn have no value in themselves and no place in this world!”
Who knows if he thought he was doing me a favor. As if he didn't know that he only attracted the attention more. Musicians give rhythm with their fists, each line swells anger, each verse remembers it. The target darkens, the road gets longer and you yourself become the mud that
weighs down your journey. Fury, to vent. Fast search , transgressive. Each note a sling to throw
out the cry of revenge. Electric sounds, spiked waveforms, gain gain gain to erase the pain.
Who knows if he thought he was doing me a favor.
Inelegant dance sessions, with even less defined men.
Awareness becomes tangible and begins to shape you,
reality becomes the matrix of one's self and the fragile boundary.
From all sides you are attacked, different directions, confused, you cannot answer.
Unless you start tidying up. Writing. Rules. Verses.
Harmonies. Necessary illusions, voluntary for the conscious and curing hedonism.
Solution and escape.
Only the continuous search for elegance elevates,
takes you away from the bottom, from the most miserable level.
The figures take shape and color and create your solution, a subtle indifference.
Who knows if he thought he was doing me a favor.
Who? The fate, made me living hell in my life.
The pain came from so many directions that there was no escape, there was no way out.
The mind raped from all sides, conscious and unconscious, without respite.
And to stop hearing, I decided to listen.
Music, yes, but always at highest volume, so that it had the strength to move aside the thoughts.
It worked, I suddenly realized I had the way,
to exorcise the memory with the obsession for the music.
So I decided to create it completely cheerful, to destroy even
the possibility that it was in another way.
Rhythm, sounds and melodies dedicated only to happy energy.
There is no space to think, but only time for ungraceful dances.
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