I am that which was suffocated by cynicism. I am that which was raped by urbanisation. I am that which bore commodification and now, defiled, am silenced. This is what you wanted, no? #writer #standingstones #mystical #witches #fairies #celtic #myth #photography #urbanisation #history #rollright #druid #creativewriting
Listen. Drop whatever you’re doing; hit the play button. Now follow my voice.
You are one. You are whole. You are a living, breathing being full of the greatest intricacies known to man. You function beyond the comprehensible. Each movement, gaze and thought is mechanised by who knows what. Psychology is no more a science, a thesis which we constantly unearth like architectural fragments to be dusted off and shelved for spectators to point at with rapture and disgust.
Do I have your attention?
At first you will have heard the despondent tones dappling this melody and thought, here we go again. Give it a few more seconds and you may start to think, hang on, this is something more…cinematic? Hopeful. Carefully you begin to warm to the track and before long the muted synths soothe your mind. Whatever it is that burdens you, let it mellow in a pool of colours. Let your emotions flood in bursts of sunset oranges and apparitions of green, blue, no-speckled flecks of shattered stars.
When we write, we breathe in fabrications of the past and expel what we can of the truths within. We dip into the ink of our conscious mind to tear at the expanding yeast providing sustenance to a mind that digests sensory impulse in a heartbeat. Language and our power over it is a manipulation of sorts. We are the puppeteers, the curators of an art, using words to create stories in an effort to give people an insight into the introspective world fathomed through the keyholes of a mechanised brain. History, particularly, is a reinforcement of time and experience. Fundamentally it foregrounds the significance of the human condition, teaching us what it means to be human, whether it means looking at the boundless emotions humanity has branded across her breasts like a bruised imperfection, or the relative way others can be consumed by their sadistic demands.
When we write we give voice to the people whose stories have been ignored. A reader, for once, can step into a world and identify with people they never would have been able to meet. Projecting a part of ourselves onto the image of a character shows we are all dreamers reaching out to generations with a mutual understanding that we are all important, we are all unique.
Music is so, so integral. It colours the words you read, and even now it induces feelings which would otherwise remain uncovered. It’s one of the ways we can truly describe how we feel without the need to utter a single word. This song, oh this beautiful song with its delicate, cathartic melody whispers to the mind such raw passion. Each beat echoes like the ripples in a pond, full of life and vigour. It’s inspiring, evocative, a whole variety of words that do no justice to conjure up the images we receive, nor the memories it recalls. And it doesn’t stop there. That voice with it’s varied structure of clipped words and extensions of breath, wavering to a frail halt, is wrought with such precision we are left feeling hit with a heightened respect for art. As a form, we can no more separate ourselves from this act of self expression than we can from our actions.
Self expression is a funny thing. I can’t tell whether we use it to validate our existence or to prove that we can stand out from the crowd. Is it for ourselves, or is it for others? How about the consequences? Is it intentional, as if we can use it to uproot the perceptions of reality? Or the shamefaced result of our own folly? Point is, self expression isn’t definitive.
I write this in the early hours of the morning with a fixated mind set on producing something, anything. This song is a testament to my adoration of everything I love: from tracking the secrets of history to hacking at the deepest, darkest stories of our culture, I am fascinated by academia and the arts; both walk hand in hand through libraries of hanging vines.
Not everything will make sense here, that much is true. But when you find something as profound as a track on which all your tenderness for subjects is conserved, then you will understand that comprehension is a rarity when set against ardour.