This is why music is beautiful, & this is why I write

You combine the primal, the beat. The rhythm of life and existence. The hum drum rum tum of time gliding over planar space.

The melody, the hook that catches your heart and mind and makes it soar, or plunge. The delicate, or the resonant, forming waves that break.

And the lyrics, pure poetry perhaps. Or maybe spoken, deadpan. Or screamed, in vicious vitriol. Or cried in anguish. Scathing, or loving, or forlorn, or beguiling, or explaining.

Ever entertaining. Uplifting or depressing on a whim. Cliched, but a drug. Nothing else is as primitively powerful as music, nothing else speaks to our hearts as equal to the mind.

So why do I choose to write, rather than make music? Perhaps a lack of talent; I have always found writing easy, composition not so much. Also immediacy - upon writing something down I know what the completed product will be. There is relief in such simplicity. Also intimacy, these are my exact words, as I write them. Not a recording of something to to be prodded into post production submission, ever stagnant.

Words are alive, imbued with not only the soul of the writer but also his mood. Even an abstract like tiredness can be deduced. But also affected by the mood of the reader, whoever he is.

This is the second dimension that sets apart writing from music. The stanzas, the rhythm, they are still present. The authors voice breathes through the page & only an avid and concerted reader will acquiesce to his beauty, beneath.

It is this beauty to which I aspire. Timeless indefatigability. An eternal life from the page, available to those that look. A treasure that can change lives, even alter the future.

But the lot of the writer is traditionally grim. Typically loners, preferring to create than conflagrate the present they inhabit. Not seeking redemption in any form; love, god, money, fame. Only solitude, pen & paper, & death approaching. These are his companions. A noble cause perhaps, even a calling?

But not a choice, certainly not a sacrifice. An anti-sacrifice. Selfish. The writer lives to write and shall not be  assuaged by any other aspiration, realized or not. These are ancillary.