Sparrow, sing so sweetly
Dry these tears arrived
Come and kiss me gently
Beg me, 'Come alive'
Sail these seas within me
Nestle in my vines
Sell your secrets to me
Know they're yours and mine...
I am finished writing because it's all already been written before. I am through composing because there is nothing new and unheard left to draw from. What does it matter if I'm yet another echo among a sea of desperate millions who scramble for the same bread crumb? It has already been fed to enough people, as the taste has since become tired and bitter. Creativity and originality have evolved into nothing more than a recycling process, and I cannot continue as long as I'm conscious of the fact that every height has already been reached and every possibility has already been explored.
No matter what I do, it will always sound like something else.
I could invent my own instruments. I could construct my own chords. My own time signatures. No coherency. But it wouldn't be "proper", would it? Not that I would care anyway. Why have rules? Then again, wouldn't that classify me as "aleatoric"? Even the rebellion is put into a box.
Catch 22. The only way out of the trap is to speak nothing at all.
