My mind is as clear and clean as the 82htz reverb of the solid kick drum. The sway of the rhythm is matched by the garish pulse of a red pin spot onto a cluster of mirror balls. The polished wooded floors reflect the sound like water slipping off a leaf; the cold concrete walls compress the vibrations of bass into a dense sensation of body.
Why is no one talking about the feeling of music, why are we stuck in this jam of belief? It's pointless really to sit here and ask questions of myself. You already know my preaching answers that do nothing to satisfy your leeching mind.
This noise, this dance, this beat is everything I relate to your rejection of our only chance with progress. I make this personal to upset you, to goad you like cheap tricks and carnival candyfloss that leaves you bloated and ill with disappointment.
How else can I express the aptitude with which I function? More questions and no answers, you think I am aimless and worrisome. You fear every breath I breathe, reminding you of the shallow meaningless times spent living this life.
I accepted the challenge and cried in the face of all understanding. I declare dance as the only future, I decide that this floor is where we will claim our own identity.
Not the sound that borrowed, not the sound that bleeds from those rotten and flaccid airwaves. The sound that is pulsates beneath the ether, keeping count of all your lost hurt and all your hidden sorrow.
This is the sound that rejoices, the sound the divides the wishers from the makers. It is the sound that defeats the gilded hypocrisy of everything.
I clap to the spaces in the beat; I place my feet solidly in the steps of my own path. I walk to the deeper tune; I can see your lies like a stutter. I can remember the future; I can interoperate your dreams and all your casual demise.
Watch me flicker to this rhythm, dancing the absolute truth of my own imagination. We are entwined in this sound; we are molded by its secret code, etched into the timeless.
This is all it can be. The most avoided, rejected and discarded declaration of utopia. The most fluent path to communication, the most loneliest sound. The most honest admission to which we really are.
