What Does Your Soul Sound Like?
I often talk about the noise in my head, and it doesn't have words, and I struggle to describe it. I made a list of songs though, that remind me of the noise :-
I don't particularly keep up with music, it's not a BIG THING in my life. I have to be in a pretty special mood to chose to listen to music, and even then, I prefer the silence. I fall in love with the poetry of lyrics though, some of my favourite musicians have the best lyrics (As an aside, check out Rico, his two awesome albums are lyrical genius). I think I'll stop with the youtube links now.
All I've been doing lately is taking photos of flowers, and I don't know why. I'm a BAMF. But I was looking back through old photos I'd taken, (and you can tell, I have no tattoos!). I've been browsing my old photobucket account, which I'm eternally surprised I remember the log in details for, and some of the things I've done. I'm not handing out any links, but if you look you'll find it, I went through and picked out the best of a bad bunch for giggles.
The good bit about looking back is although I haven't changed that much, I have grown and learnt, it's like reading back over livejournal entries and being proud that "i don't do that anymore". My old sketchbooks make for interesting viewing, it's part cringe, part, I-don't-know-what. And it shows that I really don't draw anymore. There is a sense of positivity to it, a time-line of the best and worst of it all, and it's all getting better.
I saw a call for proposals, they wanted lost artworks, and I wished I had something I could put forward. I think of old sketchbook pages, I think of old photographs. I think of all this history that I'm leaving, little bits of evidence of where my psyche was at the time. Spread out in a plethora of sketchbooks, note books and photographs, I wonder how much of myself, how much of my soul is left?
Sometimes I like to believe that maybe, actually, we've been here before, but I never have. I'm making mistakes again and again and they're all the same mistakes. This world, real-world, feels sharp, the smell on the breeze whips straight through me.
I am not sad, and I am not melancholy, but I am thoughtful currently, I'm not a realist, I'm a surrealist, and I keep thinking about other worlds.
Hey, hey listen to me, Time fell down my crippled wall, And I get what I deserve