Contrast

There is an unwavering violence to sadness. The increased heart rates speeds up the flow of blood in the pipes and pump harder to catch your breath as pressure builds in your sinuses and behind your eyes. Forcefully, water flows through an orifice not built to handle the volume coming through it. The body convulses and hands tingle, fighting for a limp cloth that cant sustain the blunt trauma of your dampened face driving through it. Like a true antagonist the suffering creeps in and utters words of woe into your ear, spiking up past hurt as if to start a vagrant conversation with the current issue.

At this definitive state there is no drug, no booze, nor medicinal therapy that can drag you out of the position.  With your knees held between your thin arms – as if to allow yourself to get closer to your insides that boil at 244, before the flame burns out and you sit luke warm, drained, and incoherently sad.

Why was the human body designed to respond this way? Im sure it’s a fight or flight piece of bullshit that makes complete sense, but that makes it all more the violent. Even to all the sociopaths in the room, this happens from time to time, I know, I am one.

There is an insatiable reaction that occurs when the perfect tune flips on a mobile device thrusting through your ear drums in beautifully compact buds. Everything connects, the wind off the ocean in a foreign country elevates the sound of artists momentarily delivering its beauty to you and only you. Taking the winding staircase down our ear canals and back up to your brain to give it an amazing orgasm, twice, and still have time for the rest of the body. The water amassing 70% of our bodies is effervescent and cool making out bodies fizz to the our momentary Jesus; whomever the artist(s) may be. Whilst completely being a slave to the music that embodies you there is nothing more freeing as you take light steps forward and let the music project onto others through your pores.

Again, at this state there is no drug, no booze, no fucking pric behind a desk that can fight this feeling and its electric as hendrix’s guitar.

Perhaps this is why there are so many dead musicians who have succumbed to the needle, the drink, the pills or the introvert hideaways. For maybe they delivered the beautiful sound that drove them to walk lighter, and fear nothing and when the music stopped and the heart grew weary, it made a vacancy for the sadness to creep in.