I was looking at his picture, have you ever looked at a person's photgraph? I mean really looked, not necessarily because you wanted to but because your eyes were drawn to it. And you had been staring at it for quite some time before you ever realize what you are looking at. I analyzed every detail, felt the texture, smelled the air, and looked into his eyes. I zoned in on them, the porthole to the soul. It's as if I could read him, fell his pain and his passion. Mostly, I felt his purity, the purity in the way that he chooses to live his life. The respect that I feel for him continually grew with each second that I stared into them.
Perhaps it was that I had been reading what he had written, or perhaps it was his choice of positioning in his pictures, or perhaps it is his music. Music that is so simplistic, but meaningful that I can not be capable of understanding its importance. Regardless of the cause his eyes made me feel ashamed. Mostly because I have fallen so far from myself. I have looked in the mirror, into my own eyes. They do not possess the purity, the passion, the love, or the conviction of which composes a life. Mine spill out in confusion, dissapointment, frustration, obsession, and selfishness.You can not fake the beauty of the soul with a wide-eyed look, or mascara coated lashes, that is something that can only be achived through a decision what you must make within yourself to let go. Where you can risk being wrong and fight for what you belive is right. When you allow yourself to listen with both ears and wholefully consider outside influences but still lead your life with your guts all-knowing instruction. Your soul is beautiful when you can face up to your fears, and stand up for yourself even when faced with the risk of standing there alone. Because what is the point of being with others if that are not with the person who you truly are.
I used to play an instrument. I miss it, I would practice all the time, but never what I was suposed to practice. It was gorgeous, a smooth release from the world and from myself. When I was alone, where I felt comfortable, when I knew no one could be listening I played. I played loud and full and there was even one particular song that I remember. I could never get through that song, the composer wrote it so perfectly that I could feel what he felt when he wrote it, as I played images flashed through my vision and feeling pulsed through my veins. The music would bombard me with an overload of senses, the joy, the betrayal, and the sadness welled up inside of me as the music rose out. It was too much for me to experience, I never wanted to feel that much life, I would always have to stop it made me cry. If anyone was around I couldnt play with that much passion. I was too afraid that they'd think I was weird. or that I was over exaggerating my attachment to the piece. In reality I just came of as being bad at interpretation.
Maybe thats how life is; I'm too scared of anyone rejcting me that I rather lead my life as a sterotype. It is easier to face the rejection of a person that I introduce as Gwen, rather than live with in terror that someone would reject me as myself. Maybe its the vunerability that allows such purity in life. One day I want to look into the mirror and see myself, for who I am. Weather it be ugly or beautiful I want it to be the truth. It is a waste of life to loose myself and live for the whims of the sheep.

Labels: Moby, Music