| Just some random writing |
[Apr. 28th, 2009|12:05 am] |
| [ | A Bit of the Old Ludwig Van |
| | Clint Mansell - Winter: Lux Aeterna | ] |
Time seems to slow down. The adrenaline surges through your body, and everything just seems to move in slow motion. Like nothing matters but this one thing. Your thoughts race. Nerves like fire. Ice water rushing through your veins. You try to stretch out, shake the feeling out of you, but you can't. No matter how many times you do this, it's always exactly the same. You know what to expect on the other side of that door. You know what you have to do, but it always seems like, right before it's time to do it, you can't. Like climbing a fucking mountain or something. The door opens, and the walk down the hallway seems like you're walking the Green Mile. To a degree, it's the truth. At the end of that walk, you know if you don't do what it is you do best, they'll tear you to shreds. Failure drives you to succeed. You're scared to think of what's going to happen if you don't perform up to your standards, let alone someone elses. Nothing can shake the feeling that you're not as good as you think you are. And it scares you to death. You feel like you're going to puke, no matter how much you try to hold it down. The butterflies in your stomach turn to hornets, and you're left there, standing in front of the stairs, in a daze. Your stomach on fire from all the stinging, the buzzing travelling up your body and into your head. It drowns out the noise from the other side of the stairs. People, clamoring for you, waiting for you to do what you love. Anxiety hits you in an awesome wave. Go on. Tel yourself you can't do it. Just like you do every night. Tell yourself you're not good enough for anything. That there's no point in what you do. That you'll never be good enough for anyone. That you'll never be the hero you thought you were.
You shake your head, come out of your daze, and smile to yourself. Night in, and night out, it feels just as good to grab all of those feelings and own them. Turn them into the energy that drives you up those stairs. All the noise from the other side of the stairs comes rushing back to you. They're chanting for you. All of you. Seven hands, placed in a pile. A short prayer. The strength to go on. The strength of the world. You look at yourself in the mirror for a brief moment before you move again. All the tattoos, the piercings. All symbols. All representing the moments like these, the moments that drive you forward. You turn your head and look up on the stage. You see your tools sitting there, waiting for you to master them, just like you do every night. The shining drum heads. The cymbals sitting all around them. Perfectly rounded, demanding to be used to create art. To take perfection and create that sound... the sound of imperfection. The sound of the soul rushing out through your hands, your fingers. Into the sticks, and into the drums. All of your problems, worries, doubts, fears. Gone, in that one instant. Everyone else looks at their instrument the same way. A vessel for the soul to travel through. Walking up those steps, you feel empowered like you never have before. Every night it feels like new. As you sit behind the drums, stare out into the ocean of chanting, rabid fans, you can't help but smile. And as the first notes hit, liberation takes over. And for that brief time you put your soul out for the world to see and hear, everything is right with the world. And just think. Tomorrow, you're gonna do it all over again.
So that was a dream I had. Basically, narrated by my mind. And it's about me. So yeah. Enjoy. |
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| Comments: |
my aim died just a minute ago, i'm sorry. :[ | |
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