Dear Dreams, Dear Diary

Thoughts dissolve in a whirlpool of pathos.

Mine eyes they embrace the candle light.

Lost souls in agony they whisper.

Circling around the dancing fire.

The scent of vanilla a rainbow lake.

Memories of childhood, an icy crate.

This uncanny fate, those inverted years.

The melting wax, a soul of tears.

The garden of divine beauty cannot be intruded. Only those who are gifted at birth may reside. Yet those who reside in the garden may not see her true beauty, for they have only ever lived within her presence. This curious child who wished to uncover her secrets, with wings he sored above the clouds. Yet when he appreciates her true precious form, too late to realise, for he is an abandoned being.

Perhaps if there is a parallel world where Adam and Eve did not steal the fruit of wisdom, we would both pity them, and yearn for them. If the gift of wisdom cannot coexist with the gift of beauty, must one walk a lone path towards the peak of the summit, where the throne of the übermensch sits? Yet I am only human, all too human, too human to be human. How this perverse desire for tragedy emerges, out of the dark desolate life of the genius. Yet how he yearns for the warmth of a heart, to enclose and render the despair all the more gentler. Beyond consciousness is a divided desire, a path into the abyss, from the void…

O! Who has gifted the child with those glorious wings? What evil laughter I hear from the stars, in the palace of wisdom. Schadenfreude is God’s favourite game, his favourite piece is the crystal of freedom.

Trust not of appearances, have patience and delicacy, hear it, sense it…

Music is life, it is a mirror.

Music is drama, for life is a drama.

Music is memory, it gifts me with all the joys and sorrows of the past.

Music is a story, a world that comes to me, a dream.

Music is temporal, it is the flowing of the river.

Music is like poetry, the one who reads shall grant it meaning.

A painting changes not, a mirror reflects all that it sees.

The painting brings your mind into the world.

Music guides you through a world of minds.

Music cannot be seen, nor touched, it can only be heard.

Music is a love letter for a lover who listens.

One and only one who listens shall hear her sorrows.

For the musician too writes her story.

The music of Chopin sees absolute freedom within a fine structure.

The fine structure of culture, of sensibility.

The freedom is not wild and chaotic, but refined and elegant.

It is existence upon the human condition.

An existence most conscious of its culture and living a bohemian life that is most elegant and refined.

One who understands Chopin shall sense this burden of freedom.

She must therefore share this sentiment with Chopin, the illness of consciousness, of existence.

She must be more sorrowful than all, yet who is there to see?

A mirror.