movement

percussion would be nothing without the bass.
an empty rythm lacking subsance and determination, like a marathon runner without a finish line.
and with the depth and cushion the bass brings comes a reassuring sense of calm.
relax, she whispered into my ear. and it is this word, in that tone, that is my bass.
the relentless drum urging me to go on with no end in sight. searching blindfolded for a reason, a purpose.
but with one breath it can all transform into a spark of imagination, a sudden rev of the engine which drives me, inspires me, transcends the nothingness that has become my percussion.
and with these i create my melody, i become my reveries.
into all that i have felt i begin to sink deeper.
unaware of what is beyond yet comforted by the surprise.
rolling on waves of my own creativity, my unbelievability.
where does this all end is of no concern since the beginning of this trip is all that exists.
occassionaly reality knocking on my rainy car door window and i pass and let it go, careful not to splash it with the puddle and the tire for i might want to meet later, just not today, not today.
the method to this madness is no longer sadness for the rain is here and it is flowering my desire, pushing me to inspire even the most remote parts of my emptiness.
and i will rise.
all the while, the bass line pumping the blood through my veins with soft, subtle whispers. reminding. me. to. relax.
this is my movement.