The innate spark of the self is something that has been clawing at my mind lately. I have been living in a whirlwind of musts and shalls that I have quieted the crazy mess that characterizes me.
You see, this "mess" I refer to is the state of being in shitty pjs, unruly hair, annotating a sheet of music and going at it for hours until I perfect a melody. The same mess I find myself in when I have had too many coffees and have fragments of exceptional writing yet no idea how to puzzle it into an idea that seems acceptable to publish.
This mess, I figured, is what maintains my sanity, and not only that but the firecracker kid inside. In an attempt to "adult" myself I have quieted the crazy mess that characterized many nights from the past. Do I excel at piano? absolutely not. The funny thing is that having my fingers move across the black and white planes have the power to disconnect me absolutely. So what happened? I wanted to prove something, I guess. But in proving that I decided to box my scribbled music sheets for professionalism and at the end of the day I felt like a dead man walking.
Often, I write attempting to answer some of the most pending questions about human behavior and probabilities of the essence. The thing is that I never do answer my questions. Would it be safe to say that we have been nurtured into becoming automatons of "success", structured to neglect the rest? When do we decide to become "serious"? We've been told to be ourselves, yet limits are there. It's like the whole freedom of speech idea in politics.
You have someone trying to make a statement and suddenly they colored out of line. So is there really a freedom in things? I have met people who will dance with me at 4 am and beat at the piano and sing until we've reached the pinnacle of human happiness. But there's always someone who comes knocking to quiet us down, to "control" ourselves. Because we are told to be happy, but how much happiness is it acceptable to have? Is it better to be absolutely happy, or have some happiness with a bit of discomfort? You know, there's a whole issue of philosophical b.s. surrounding this. When do we stop being children? The common answer is age, another maturity. But what if part of maturity would be to accept to indulge in chaotic passions?