The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything. -Friedrich Nietzsche
I find a trait that we as human animals demonstrate to be interesting, namely expressionism – the need to express something whether it is in art, music, dance or literature. That need to articulate emotions – those experiences which affected us so poignantly that we are driven to return to these instances to reflect upon ourselves, can be a virtuous pipeline to self-realization. Of these avenues, music has proven to be the most powerful in the aide of self-healing – or philosophical problem-solving. To the sensitive, the receptive, the emotional philosopher – music contains inherently more than musical notes and frequencies of sound. In many ways more articulate than words, music can more accurately express emotions aurally. Music is philosophy.
In viewing music as an efficient vehicle of expression or ritualization, one is enabled to therapeutically analyze and reflect upon one’s reality in a philosophical manner. This is more profound in the active composition rather than the passive listening, where the piece becomes a musical essay of one’s own self-evaluation, introspection, and retrospect in the processing of one’s circumstances. That is briefly, music allows for philosophical problem-solving, namely it enables the ability to sort out the puzzle pieces of one’s life that are haphazardly displaced on the proverbial table.
Generally, I prefer to have an “intimate” setting in my own compositions. I am inspired to write music out of personal experiences that have influenced me, which usually have influenced me in negative ways more so than in positive ones. Personally, I prefer music that is real – that is written out of necessity of influence – personal experience, rather than the programmed sort of filler on the radio. Not that filler doesn’t have it’s own place and relevance, it certainly does. Rather, I choose to reveal portions of myself through bits of musical stanzas, to become vulnerable, and express and analyze certain emotions or perspectives.
I wrote the song Thursday, incidentally on an early Thursday morning before the sun had risen. Thursday was composed in a place of desperation. I had been in the ins-and-outs of a relationship, and suffered anxiety through the preceding months. I wanted to be a healer, to repair her fragmented soul, to console her spirit that had been damaged from before we met. It was still dark out, and she was fast asleep. I sat at the keys without recourse, without a plan, and just started playing in the darkness to somehow disconnect temporarily from the perpetual neurosis.
I lost myself somewhere in between the endeavor of healing and consoling, and turned against her in self-destructive squabbles. I began to tear her apart after building her up for so long. After I destroyed the tower I vigorously built, the only thing left to annihilate was myself.
If I ever was going to write a suicide note, this little song that started taking shape in the dark was the closest thing to one I had ever replicated. The general recurring theme from everything was “that which cannot be,” and is felt in the hopelessness of the song. In one small, fleeting moment I wanted to end everything. The apparent form of things was built seemingly out of sadness and brokenness. And out of that, I decided to play. Little riffs and phrases seemed to come out of thin air, and in a few hours I had the basic structure of the song.
I wrote it for her. I didn’t want lose her. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to show her I was sorry and that without her, life was as empty as I have been. I didn’t want to live anymore if it meant I couldn’t be with her, even if I destroyed myself while we were together. Obviously, I am still alive and well enough to persist. I compose out of necessity of influence – to express and ritualize, to reflect, to self-heal, to philosophize. In a word, because I must.
I wrote you this song to tell you how I feel.