Of Sound Mind

Music could never be defined in words. We can compare it to the fantastical and still fall short. We can speak of it in hyperbole and have our words fail to exhibit its grandeur. It's just incomprehensible. Take for example, the fluid fingers of Mr. Tim Sparks. A man like any other. Eats, sleeps, breathes, beats his heart. Yet with a guitar in his hands, he speaks to the stars...

But what is it that draws us to music? What is it about rhythm and reverberation lashed together that ignites the soul, sparks the mind, sets the unnameable, ethereal entity hidden within us to dance in glee, float free. Among all in the universe, is this not what we seek most? This sublime experience, this synchronization of our sentience with that of the universe. These moments, when we understand for a fraction of a time, or at least feel reconciled with our fragmented conception of understanding, are so real, so very insistent in their existence, and ours through them, that they stun into silence. And what is borne in that silence? Emotions that grow into ideas. Clandestine inklings of enormous notions that spawn inspiration. The dust mite that raises the insect army.

I've found that there are certain artists you listen to that engross you completely. They tear down the walls of your world and rebuild with frantic visages and frenetic palettes splayed upon the inside of your mind. But then, there is some music that sets wing to your thoughts and float you far above where you feet trod. Bonobo, for example..

The might of music of wondrous, withering. An entire decade can be encapsulated in a song. An emotion for which words do not apply can be expended, illustrated through notes in succession, chord progression. So, to the starlit sprite stepping somewhere in a relative reality, the living and laughing embodiment of music, I adore thee.


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