With a dynamic interlude lasting for far too long his dreams shifted. It was willed with complete defiance. Perspective is a funny thing, glamorous even. Yet, with struck eyes fixated on a hand-painted horizon, perspective will still carve a sunset and the day will come to an end. The moon will rise so a dormant seedling can sprout but a new design and, upon waking, manifests an obsession. Where obsession lurks, so must passion. Thus creating new goals, challenges and needs. This happens. It is normal. Usually it is subtle but sometimes blinding. It can be welcomed with magnificent esteem, grotesquely loathed or a confusing mixture of both. This is where he was found.
His obsession was sound. A time when roots were severed, he found sanctity in music. It could capture and pinpoint an emotion, a time and a place. It could trigger any memory, fictitious or not, and bring an oasis to mind. A deserted island, if you would. A place untouched by the outside world. Shift a song to repeat and fall deeper. The colors become more vivid, imagination breathes forth and opens a burst of pure emotion. He became infatuated with the act. Glorious how vibrations modulating throughout space can translate such power. He began to paint his horizon. What if he could dabble ever so slightly into others’ emotions? What if he, like a puppeteer, was able to take a gentle hand to their strings and strum a melody of emotions. He could connect the masses and, even just for a moment, harmonize as one. Maybe he would stop feeling so alone.
He made this his goal. Pushing, hoping, fantasizing and, most importantly, realizing. Over and over again, realizing. Disbelief stuck like a mountain, he fell stubborn, stricken with an aptitude of will, but what he did not realize was that, at the core of this cavernous rock, he already knew defeat. And defeat is what it felt like. He pleated and bargained. He begged and he grieved. He pretended that it did not bother him. At times, he even forgot about it. He found other passions to distract him. He told himself lies about how one passion would lead to the other but, he ultimately lost focus. Time stalked around like the creeper it is and acceptance was sure to rear its causal benevolence. When he looked back, a realization.
Finding the treasure map of a found treasure is only painless with foresight. This is where he has been. Searching. Sailing an empty ship through a storm of hope to a place that has not a reward for him. The land already harvested and the haven already inhabited. Not to say he could not make a life in such a place but, he would locate little fulfillment. This was the daunting epiphany. He realized that merely entrancing an audience would not complete him. He had to lead them somewhere. Take them on an adventure. String them along and captivate them with his vision.
Peering into a new illusion, the moon had set. Soon the sun would rise slowly unveiling a blank canvas. This is where he is. An incubus’ secrets are to be translated and illustrated. Picking through the wreckage and finding a palette in a forgotten talent. An ability so innate it was overlooked and misguided. It was treated poorly, taken for granted and used as a crutch. It stealthily stood by his side through all the stormy weather. Everywhere he went, there was his loyal companion always begging to be let out. Assuming small bursts of brilliance here and there, formulating assurance at every opportunity.
There is little trouble finding direction with the path. He is having trouble finding the passion. Feed him the obsession. Here, these words, he put them together for you...
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