I heard the guitar strum, and the songs that usually pull people to their demise could not do what they are supposed to do. The chords which on the surface sounded in perfect harmony were played in absolute discordance to my soul.
The song of death had no effect on me because I cannot die.
Instead I felt a completely different feeling. I’m not sure quite how to explain it but it was like someone had taken a lighter and some kindling and made the beginnings of a fire inside my body. I was physically writhing in pain from the burning it caused. I wondered whether it was some sort of punishment or karma for evading death, that a death lament would cause me so much pain.
But I thought deeper on the issue.
I have never been a many who had much time for music. Music does not help with exploring the levels of Arcadia. But I have heard, through my conversations with El Mariachi Muerte and others, that for some Music is something that comes from the very soul, or hits you hard in the gut. And I finally understand that now. Whilst I still get no pleasure from music, I can now empathise with the pain it can cause. The sadness and heartache it can bring. That guttural feeling it can draw from you.
They say that to express yourself is to bring out the music in you. That being free to be your true self is like scribing music onto a stave. That your joy is that trilling flute, that your sadness is that drawling oboe. If you could see the music in me you would be scared. It would be like every instrument hated each other and purposefully played things as far from alike as possible.
The truth is though, you will never see the music in me. There is no music in me. Instead I’m drawn to another turn of phrase. Bringing out the beast in you.
That is what it felt like. When I heard those strings vibrate, I didn’t feel the music in me. I didn’t feel those happy feelings, or even those sad feelings. I felt something dark and dangerous awaken deep down in my very soul.
El Mariachi Muerte, we may have unlocked that door, but you also unlocked something just as terrifyingly unknown in the process.
The truth is that the music in you has just awoken the beast in me.
The symphony you scribe becomes the pain I dole out. The chords you pluck become the damage I deal.
The problem is, whilst you can control the music in you, and bend it to your will, I can’t control the beast in me. It bends me to its will. And all I can do is hope that when the beast is done, and returns to its hibernation, that there is something left. That there is anything left.
But I doubt it.
Just like your music always around, so is my beast.
Ready to rip you apart, plucking your appendages like you pluck that guitar.
Then we’ll see.