The Language of Music

May 29, 2010 irishwordpainter

I long for my native soil, with its familiar landscape, where we spoke the language of music. People didn’t hurt each other just because they could. We cherished our souls, it was the entrance into a morality that valued the mind of man and what he stood for. Honor and decency could not be bartered for gold. A man who discounted the measure of the human heart was guilty of murder. What is man without his heart ? Discarding a heart with malice and contempt was punishable by removing the soul of the accused, leaving him to live out the remainder of his days in an
empty wasteland of despair. He was filled with an anguished longing that could not be named. Every sensation and emotion were surgically removed. No heroic measure could save his fate, as he was denied courage, love could not grant redemption, as he lacked the capacity to feel, cunning couldn’t bring him back, as he lost the ability to reason. His sins sentenced this mindless, vacant man to roam aimlessly, never reaching a destination.

In my native land, the heart was the life’s muscle pumping virtue and honor into the soil. We were fueled by joy and love was the body’s oxygen. We could hear the flowers and everything was filled with such beauty, we wondered if too much pleasure might give us cavities.

The land is gone, the heart has become a useless currency. Man no longer seeks beauty, morality has been bartered for the vice of sultry skin, raped by green paper madness. The soul has been beaten down by the quest to feed man’s lust: an animal that can never be satisfied, because after his feeding frenzy, despair and shame make an appearance, creating a futile attempt to slay the dragon of degradation. Once the animal has been set free, the possibility of real love and true intimacy become an impossibility. The eternal hunger is now the DNA that courses through its veins. He faces the same existence as the man who discounted a heart, only now there are trails of fragmented hearts whose blood is embossed in the print of his sole.

It is this wasteland that leaves my soul in suspension, delaying the inevitable, reaching the signpost at the end of this madness,  reading:  ”Beyond this point lies nothing.”

Entry Filed under: Morality,Thoughts of Profundity

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