Civilization was unlike the nature he surrounded himself with. Sitting with a dry reservoir of thought, his mind wandered out of recognition. Distance from thought was all he needed. The low hum of nature sent a wave of nude reprisal through his body. A mild grasp of cents in his pocket got him no where. A mild grasp of sense in his pocket brought him here. A mild grasp of scents in his pocket kept him here. His prickled neck felt the much needed distance retract. His ears ripped back as his mind reeled with an unknown pregnancy of thought. The beauty. It had found a nice pickled brain to plant itself in. This brain had just enough room for a lonely composer and his music sheets. Tidal wave thoughts destructively smashed all of the foundations of civilized life he'd tentatively build up. The music sheets draped across the floor of his mind, the composer awaited with his paint cans of music.
Incense frolicked into the receptors of his nose and he sat up. What day was it? Time melted together. Memories of his past seemed just moments ago. Could he remember the future if he lived in a memory? The composer tenderly brushed the colors of his music lightly across the top of his cranium.
The clouds lit up like a volcanic word. Exactly the color that the word “symphony” painted on the canvas of his head. Sunlight and clouds merge into the sand dunes of the sky. Vigorously now he painted. Seeping in his natural, raw, untamed energy.
His feet regulated the beat as he hauled his heavy body back home. Paint splashed blindingly all over his brain. The paint of the scene. The numbing rumble of the river, the native breath of the earth as it kissed his skin, the smell of nature as it politely invaded his nose. The symphony arrived and began to transpose the imagery into sound. All playing diligently, beautifully. The scents drove the rest of the symphony wild. The unorganized organization of it all had him conducting the madness in no time. Ideas spread like wildfire all across his unprotected head. His feet got faster and faster, the melodies were insatiable. So many directions to take it, building and building. The world was burning into his skull. Permanently tattooed on his soul, all of it.
Digging deep into the Earth he was. Colors and sounds stinging all over. He became the hands of the Earth. Writing with wild dance. Natural. Prodigious. Perpetual.
Created: Jul 25, 2010Document Media