Perspective of Musical Inspiration

     Without expelling the maelstrom of my thought pool, I’ve written in audible silence for a long time. I've noticed if I write while listening to music, my mind’s primordial presumption of what I’m hearing performs exhibition in what my fingertips type into Bean, sometimes even to the degree of me subconsciously relaying entire lyrical lines as if I wrote it myself.

      For example, if I am listening to Miley Cyrus, I'll personally expect to bitterly write about the ignorance of teenage society, while adding in quirky half-insults strongly recommending everyone under the age of twenty should simply get dressed this very moment, for their currently hollow expectation of successful lives depend on it.

     If I’m jamming to Beyonce or Lady Gaga while simultaneously dancing in heels before my full-length mirror, it’s privately undeniable that if I can calm down enough to turn my temporarily clouded perceptions into comprehensible words, I’ll express how I love every last one of my friends, and all the things I’m grateful for at that moment. Should the album change into something more solemn however, I’ll completely forget writing about aforementioned topics and fall into a mild state of self resentment for being grateful for anything at all when the world and people who hurt me the most should be grateful for me.

     If I’m pensively listening to what brings me home, I am reluctantly brought back to my center by intimate gravity. Regrettably, once stripped of my artificial exterior, the sincerity repressed within my core isn’t burning hot like the world’s, nor does it consist of the personality traits I superficially apply to the suggested idea of me in the midst of making game of convincing others I actually own them. Analogically, my inner self is cold like a particular distant planet’s surface that holds requisite of planets within it’s proximity for it to even have a metaphorical definition, notwithstanding the rules of science that are slightly bent for exposition.

     It has occurred to me time and time again without speculatory resolution that I am a surface surmised to exist for the sole purpose of being scribbled upon by those that do not own me. It insinuates something of the world’s inhabitants if you consider most of what I am pressured by is instillation of values and attempted conditioning of the author’s own personality weaknesses.

     It is rare that someone write advice upon my metaphorical bathroom wall instead of just derogatory names or phrases. Those that do are the respected individuals I hold in highest reverence, disregarding anything they ever have and may do to me. Concluding this final thought, unconditional love can exist in this way, outside of a domesticated house pet. In reality though, isn't that an unspoken definition of the entire human race?

     Happy thinking.