There's No Music Here

I notice the difference in the thoughts I think and the feelings I feel in the presence and the absence of music. Lately, more often than not, there is none to be heard, and I am left with the sounds of this room, what is immediately outside it, and what is inside me. Like now, there are the mechanical sounds of the heater, voices in the hallway - coughing, laughing, talking about nothing- just to talk. The sameness of it hurts, like it might go on blandly this way forever - monotony, a prisoner's gray routine, paste. Outside the window, only the silence of cold. In my self there is a song I intend to write that will lend heart and strength to us all whenever it is sung, but all the words are scattered. I have had enough of the caustic, and the fatal, enough of pulverised hopes. I will write about the long shot taken in faith, of total commitment and wild abandon, and of the triumph of our collective spirit as we grow beyond our bullshit together. I will write about it all, all the good, as soon as I can hear the music.