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Music Lacking Strokes by Jacob

March 2, 2011

Are we people?

No! We are angels!


Twas the beginning of love in the chamber, twixt stone and glass was their devotion intertwined. With little to say, and too much to hold straight, the wine just brought stupor upon the young in the dusk. If ever such love was drenched in the fire, the flames would arise in such lustful desire that the sky lathed in time will waste away quick with little to hold back either the whip or the stick.


I did not listen to my ipod for a week. It was easy. I also didn’t masturbate for a week. Also relatively easy. I found that when I did neither of these things, silence overpowers. Not in reality, but in the mind, I mean. I never heard pure silence through my journey that week. But in my mind there was something beautiful going on. It was as if I stopped all the machines that whir seemingly without necessity, and let the wind blow through the caverns of my consciousness.


All I have to say about that is, wow are there a lot of caverns.


Shouts in high frequencies and voices scream over colors that never existed anyways. However, with the expansion of crimson inside my left lobe aside my deft tongue, there came to me a spirit promising a birth of appreciation in regards to simplicity. Wonders work wildly outside of the block, and the blood I drew to spatter upon the entrance of my abode proved too thick to wash clean. So I let the dogs lick it clean. Not one to withstand light because of its intentions, I brushed up on my knowledge of the arcane. All my soul ever wanted was a little bit of a pat on her back for all her hard efforts. Not in acknowledgment but in the honest brevity that one individual holds for another. Yet, the acknowledgment never came. So in earnest, heat blushed bloomingly with both bottle caps and seasonal wakes. And the ones that we take note of asked why we were so mad.


Music is a kind of masturbation, if you think about it long enough. It is the stimulation of a desire to the point of exhaustion, which incurs both religious motion and defiant pursuit. When satisfaction is reached, the compensation lasts for much shorter the amount of time than one would have liked to believe. Indeed, it is that lackluster feeling in an action after its completion that gives one the incentive to become an addict. But what addiction is legitimate without a sting? Music and masturbation leave you unaware of your surroundings and build up a world within your mind. They ring loud throughout the caverns that are the apparent holes in your consciousness. And when the ringing is done, there are echoes that never ever dissipate. The echoes are the worst. They leave you with a knot in your chest, an itch in your ear, and a burning chain deep down below.


Pause for a moment to watch the paisley go by, may your dreams leave you craving the mold on the rye. Without characters chatting alongside your left, with your right hanging empty, and your back free of theft, watch the world turn around you inside of itself. For the muses have wrought such a wondrous hell. Free of function, instruction; a place I’d obligingly dwell.



At the earlier stages of my self-deprivation, all that was lacked was quite noticeably missed. Not to the point of inducing such a craving I could not control, but there was oft a moment I would think to myself:

“Golly, this would be a great moment to dance to one of my favorite tunes!”


“Geez, it’d be nice to rub one out right now!”

But, nay!

I abolished those thoughts and forced my mind down a track of self-reflection. On the train ride home, I would allow a considerable amount of time to pass in which I would stare out the window and sing to myself softly.

And the songs grew.

Over the course of the week, I sang many a lullaby to myself. I would compose the grandest of orchestral maneuvers in my mind, appreciating their flight through the cruel caverns in consciousness that plague me so.

Vocalizing these maneuvers went from being a guilty and personal pleasure, to a selfless exercise of enthusiastic expression that was without thought shared with my fellow organisms, no matter what they may be.

In this course of a week, it seems, a curtain was dropped, and my mind stood naked in front of itself exposing all that it had developed through its time in the caverns alone with only melody and rhythm as accompaniment.

The passion that was once relieved through self-stimulation in the form of masturbation instead became focused in attempts to construct order.

Order in all places.

Order inside.

Order outside.

Order in music, in physics, in logic, in action, and in belief.

Order in math, in language, in time, and in food.

With this run for order, instead of organization, chaos flew through.

And I became a bit nihilistic and impassioned.

I was convinced I didn’t care and could care even less.

Yet, I cared so much about how much I didn’t care that I could not care about anything that was care worthy.


I found the meaning of life, though. Not one I can honestly believe in, but one that I felt I worked hard enough to find that it was worthwhile to put it into an applicable context, in case someone out there wants a simple answer. Holes only trip you if you think you can fall.

Something quite curious began happening, though.

Energy was conserved, and used effectively in discussion, in argument, and in expression.

And with all these things, I felt that I could do anything or anyone I pleased if I put my mind to it.

And this attitude, it expanded the boundaries that I had incarcerated myself with by the fetters of the right hand work out.

I began to notice people again. It was odd.

When I was in the habit of self-stimulation there was this unknown lack of awareness I had towards the people that surrounded me.

When I cut this habit from out my schedule, the people that were around me began to take a shape I had not recognized before.

I’m not sure I can efficiently define what this shape is, but I know it brings me ideas to help out a little more.

It is a selfless frame of mind, induced by cutting back on a selfish action.

And this frame brings air to my lungs.

And the echoes are stilled in the caves.

Providing a lovely…silence, as it were.


Oh Onan, yes Onan, you worry me so. Pulling out when it doubt isn’t how the Jews roll. So when the Lord stuck you dead, killing you from foot up to head, He did so hoping that everyone else might get the picture. But ,alas! ‘tis not the case. And day after day, minute after minute, we fall into the trap that is the sin of Onan. Perhaps the message is that we must use our power as expressive and potent beings in a way that is befitting and beneficial to ourselves. Perhaps we must not just think of ourselves alone, but also our dead brothers’ wife. Figuratively, of course. Perhaps, we should pridefully say:

I work for my kicks!”

And take the time to put down the things that get us where we need to go at a faster pace, so that we may watch all things go by, as they were meant to be watched.

My Elders often speak of beauty that is self-evident and fulfilling because we work so hard for it. So hard for the beauty that we believe eludes us so. And yet, it is there if we need it at any time. We must just take the time to reach it and appreciate it, because there is no beauty by way of short cut. No life changing beauty, anyways.

And while we may listen to beautiful music, or have a great time by ourselves with some Jergens, it just does not amount to the reality that is the expression of truth we personally can make with effort through sound, or the love that we can achieve through sharing with another and working to love another.

Time is called a teacher that is both cruel and just in his ways. However, through my experience I came to know that Time can be a nutritious soil for the soul, and when we water with our efforts, awareness and appreciation sprouts.


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