The force of life is powerful enough to build machines that can leave the solar system yet it retains the power to destroy every bit of evidence that it was ever here. It can be as tender as the flow of endoplasmic-reticulae, or as harsh as billions screaming in unison. Its diversity stretches from the nano world of viruses and bacteria all the way to the behemoths we call blue whales.
The species that seems to regard itself as the most intelligent on this small, blue marble argues over how and when the initial spark that created life occurred. It argues over the lives of its own unborn. It argues over politics, religion, land, resources, and anything else it can think of. It also seems to be keen on the destruction of itself along with as much of all other life here.
Countless tons of chemicals are used to grow countless tons of food. Countless tons of fish are pulled from the oceans. Countless more tons of waste are generated and pumped back into the ground, air and waters. Countless facts are yet to be discovered about what effects all this is having on the ecosystem. Much has been learned about how the world works after the damage has been done. Many fight for the earth but countless more could care less.
Some dreamers would change everything to reflect the utopias in their minds. Some would change only their immediate world. Still, others would change a few specific aspects the world over. Good or bad, dreamers will dream. These days seem to have no shortage of “bad” dreamers. They make the news far more readily than the good ones.
My music will always reflect my dreams, and my nightmares. It will always be influenced by the world around me, the past, the present, the future, and my imagination.
Inspirations will come and go like the tides. The end products they instigated are but a record of their existence and influence. My music is not a collection of gems that I have cut and polished in my own way. My memories of the muses are the bounty in the box I am trying to bury on an island. My bare hands are my shovels. The sand is heavy with water. I stop for a swig of rum. I look into the box and realize that no matter how deep I bury it, every memory will still be with me, nestled into my synapses. With any luck, some of them will be equally at home in the synapses of a few others I was allowed to share them with.
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