We, The Music.

My mind spins even in stillness. And like a record in a box in a basement, the silent darkness has no bearing on the layered memories of my melodies. I bear a song that you may or may not call a song depending on whether or not you would differentiate between the sound of a teardrop and a raindrop hitting a blank paper. My lyrics hold me hostage until I write them. And I sing them without permission in libraries and on church rooftops. I sing them out of key, with gum in my mouth because my song is a fearless minty fresh truth that somebody’s been waiting on a corner to hear. I have a song, that just like his, hers, and yours, feeds the space we inhabit. But only in unraveling the noise of life, can we gently pull out one perfect strand of music. The lyrics of humanity can be found saturating the most ordinary of places--bleeding from the strangers you ponder from behind dark glasses as they walk towards you in the city. Release your song into the world; sing it until you know it. Until you love it. And when you do, sing it loud enough to fill the gaps between us.