An Expansive feeling.

I've been feeling expansive today. The music I've played and the things I've thought have felt like a new branch of an old tree.
I've finally decided to say fuck it to the idea of music which requires others. There's a whole bunch of stuff that interests me in that sector, but I need to put my focuses elsewhere, because my will to work is usually far greater than everyone elses. That's not a fault in others, it's more a fault of mine. I have a voracious appetite for creation. My fingers hurt right now because of all of the guitar playing I've been doing. I've stretched my voice tonight, while it's still healing from a week or two of abuse. All of this and I have no audience. I don't have anyone to appreciate it, because all of this transpired in my room, alone.

I don't create because I want to be famous, I don't create because I want to get laid, I don't even create because I enjoy it. I create because I have too. There is something in me which must get out, and music seems to do that. It's the only thing that seems to do that. When My fingers the strings the fretboard and my brain are all the same thing, are all simply pallets for whatever force I'm channelling, all is right with the world, no matter what.

I can play music, about anything, at any time, and there is no doubt that what I feel will be better. If I feel sadness it will be cathartic sadness, if I feel happiness it will turn into joy, that much greater because of pain I have felt. Music channels something out of me, that if left un siphoned would build up and pressure my mind to explode.

SO now I listen to other people's music, hearing some of me in it, and hearing some of them in me. There is a tie, and it feels good to know that maybe you have something to offer the world.

I ramble because that is what I must do. the words have to leave my head or a decompressing explosion is inevitable. Everything I say, and think and talk and fuck up, all of that needs to go out on a page, or in a song, and when my fingers are typing without me being aware of what they're typing, or how, that is when the page is just an extension of my mind, a place where the thoughts I can't hold on to are saved for later viewing. That you may end up reading it has no tie to the purpose. The view into a brain not fully functioning, or perhaps functioning at too high a level, is something of use, but is secondary to the real purpose. I just have to. I must write, and that's all there is too it. It could be shit, or it could be deleted in the near futures, but as long as it's out the space in my head feels more open, and the thoughts that run together and run a part so quickly no longer threaten to destroy the delicate pieces of myself that float in the streams of idea and speech that slide through my brain circuits.