The Concerto

The concerto is a battle between the existentialist subject and the society as an union. The symphony orchestra represents the power and structure of the social, while the soloist reflects the freedom and expressions of the individual. The concerto is a war, a war between the speculative good life of humanity as a whole, and the struggle of humanity itself, of the human individual; after all, the individual forms the society, only then shall the society shape its members.

The effect creating works of modernity reveals a general leaning towards consequentialist ideals, the instruments no longer are recognised as in themselves musically expressive, of the clarity of pitch and timbre, but of how it affects the overall impressions upon the listener. The individual no longer lives as a human being, but as a mere mechanical piece within a gigantic framework of machinery – the social machine. Who is the conductor? Where are the audiences? There is none. We have long forgotten the origins of this, now headless zombie – this, is the tragedy.

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 7:41 PM  Leave a Comment  

Fields of Time

In dreams we are slaves, yet are not dreams but the will’s own workings?

How can I not be a slave of myself? Is not being the master of oneself also being the slave of oneself? What freedom may I have? Is not freedom a paradox itself? Is not being free but being a slave to my freedom? Is not freedom an impossibility?

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 7:19 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Pathos of Life

Life is a tragedy

Death is the inevitable and only path life lead towards. Death is but a piece of graphite sketch, the sketch of life. The lovers, sees the drawing with pleading eyes, tears linger around unwilling to fall, as they agonise over their final parting. The death of the beloved, is what causes the fear of love for a contemplating child, for it renders life tragic – the death of the beloved does not end my life, it ends the life of my beloved, so I fear not death itself, but the death of my beloved. I realise the sudden void in which I dwell, I brood over my loss, and more so, the emptiness of my dying days. Death of others become blows to my weakening soul, and my body yet holds, only torturing me with a crescendo. My death on the other hand, but not of my beloved, becomes a fearful demon, for now the greatest anguish is this certainty, the certainty that I shall leave this world I love, this world in which I love. The moments before my death may be well served by my madness. This, is the pathos of life, of one who loves and belongs. The bitter wanderer, lone and weary, sees death as the final salvation, for life is but misery. I walk the earth alone, shunning all loves away, to protect my vulnerable soul, yet little do I know, that the sketch is but grey shades of monotone, only to make me all the more bitter and fall into a cold endless woe. A wise one learns, to understand the mystery of meaning, of life, one must become not the miserable pessimist, but the artist, who, with rich full blossoms, lacks not a readiness for death. The finale. The artist, the long fermata, the rich flowing honey, the autumn leaves. The artist’s piece of drawing is the riches of all, there are flowers of love, trees of wisdom, the world in splendorous shades and figures. I am the artist, I feel I am ready for death now – as I was yesterday. I smell the peaceful air, glancing at all the colours of a humble nature, how she hides so much, so glorious her meaning. I am calm, I welcome death with an open arm, an embracing gesture, a smile of gratitude. It is another long sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream…

Published in: on 21/07/2013 at 6:41 AM  Leave a Comment