…before the beginning

It starts softly but no less resonant than the noise, the rush that surrounds the storm of last night, and the rain that fell and cooled the concrete, bringing back long summer afternoons, ball in my hands, brother at my side, other brothers, dreams alive, and then the rhythm began, the rhythm of each day, each hour, divided mathematically into periods within larger periods and soon we were grown up and the beat continued to crush our bones, lash us towards the ground, but the screeching got louder, the screeching and squealing, like eagles, ‘reverbing’ in the space in between each step, each numbered day and hour, the hours we tried so hard not to count, but unavoidable, its life, this world, this place, this emptiness, never ending unless you look inward to your soul, that low squeal that distorted resonance, the other part of who you are, the lost part, it’s the same as it always was, just louder, angrier, because no, it isn’t fair, so listen to it, focus on the melody, let it take you elsewhere to space and to veiled depths and to better times as the beat fades the rhythm fades, and you are free, filling it up with a sound that is your soul, his soul, harnessed wonder and wielded effervescence, meaning and truth and the idea that we don’t have to count, we don’t have to write lists and be lists and live our life like a fucking list we can burn the sheets of paper, burn the words and the numbers, with the wailing in our hearts and our souls we keep dreaming, endlessly, dreaming until there is no more drum, no more pulse of this bloodless war, just the shudder you get when you hear the screams of who you were before the world said, this is what you are, this is right, anything else is wrong and fucked and stupid and if you think like that you’re stupid and a loser and insane, when the rain was something to charge through, smiles on faces, little kids with stars in their eyes and beings and when everything was still everything, not out of reach, just far away, so high up above, looking like ice bergs floating in nebulae, waiting to turn purple and gold like its thick, mystic waters, sparkle like you were told, be anything, do anything, let the guitars wail, let the rhythm fade and let the guitars wail, sing until your voice is gone, and then silence, silence means you made it, silence means you remember, it means you will never forget, and at the end of the shriek and the wail there is always silence, I know, and in it you can spread your wings, and believe me, they will let you fly.


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