The Framed 1’s Life

I just came home from chillin out with a good pal of mine, Christian. We talked, caught up with what happened with our lives in the two months I’ve been gone. It felt like I’m back home. Tadaima.

Whilst hanging out in his room, he made me listen to a recording Donna and he made one time. It was sublime. But the conversation that ensued proved much more valuable eventually — we talked about artistry. He mentioned that Donna never studied music theory, even something as simple as chords and notes (although she can read limitedly), but her keyboarding was awesome! In Chris’ own words, she "feels the music" and that she’s "a right-brainer."

According to Chris, she was living proof that one need not learn too much technical stuff. He adds: "technical people, left-brainers, are robots!" Perhaps. But then, he himself got entrapped in its highly organized world, only to resurface back to the creative uncertainties of right-brainness. "It was a choice," according to him.

What struck me was that when I whined that I wanted to write, he told me bluntly: "then write! Writers write. They don’t criticize. They do what they want to do." I think I’ve lost it. My "soul." Drowned out in a fabricated, interwoven world filled with survival, realities, and depressing truths.

Our conversation turned to Steve Jobs, founder of Apple. He once went to India on a pilgrimage, seeking for enlightenment. He eventually returned home and started Apple computers. Pilgrimages may be necessary to know your soul, we both agreed. But knowing is a small part of the equation.

"Obsession is the root of talent," philosophized Chris. Totally agree. But it has to burn you; consume you; spit at you and humiliate you; then finally love you like a hard-to-get lass of your dreams.

Dammit. Maybe I should just start writing. Spill my guts out again and be the soul exhibitionist I had been, letting the true me out in complete abandon. I should simply write whatever this mind dictates and let my hands do the talking. Grammatical worries and speling problems b damnd.

I want my voice back. I want my soul to talk back.

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