Jazz for a solitary walker
Indeed I often feel unheard. Very often, perhaps too much to say and not enough time to spare and chat and when I try and convince somebody to make me company for an indeterminate amount of time, then I get silent. Like if it would be necessary to get to know each other to break the ice or drain the pipeline of fluid ideas that clogs in the long branched sea of solitary thoughts. What else can I say, maybe I have nothing to say but the description in detail of a phenomena that either nobody knows or its so common that makes no sense. Sometimes I look back and see myself today in others, they wander around like a swarm, like clones of me spread all over from my past but living in other people's life, but sometimes and specially in those moments I really feel unheard.
And think that back in time when I used to be like the swarm, how unheard my friends could have felt, and how unheard my relatives could have felt, and how unheard was me with myself. As walk through in this solitary and eastern-alized Dresden, I just play jazz for a solitary walker on my mind.
Its a whistle that starts with a high pitch, and swirls downwards in wobbly irregular spirals, like crying water. The bass keeps up the tension with a soft rain while the whistle slides in the corners of the bass as its body marks... ta da da... sustained ta da da... sustained (and in a higher note now) ta da daaa a trumpet regurgitates foam of pleasure. Breaking the silence the drums replace the rain and the bass is released from the stress that the drop of water exerted over it while anticipating a more fluid move.
In fact... being unheard is like being muted - I drop my breadth to the cold air. And those words flew away like drops in the wind...- Because you can not speak anymore after a while. That's why I love the ocean, it always talks to you... and as you fall asleep it whispers you the secrets of the universe and let you to forget them, at your own will.
The waves and the foam grinds the plain coast, while making love to the shore, corroding the strings of the bass I don't know if it is a grand guitar, the one that rises to the right, to the left... its just the sound of the sea. Its just Jazz for a solitary walker. Its just jazz for a solitary walker... Its just Jazz for a solitary walker...
Can you hear it? Its just that.
And think that back in time when I used to be like the swarm, how unheard my friends could have felt, and how unheard my relatives could have felt, and how unheard was me with myself. As walk through in this solitary and eastern-alized Dresden, I just play jazz for a solitary walker on my mind.Its a whistle that starts with a high pitch, and swirls downwards in wobbly irregular spirals, like crying water. The bass keeps up the tension with a soft rain while the whistle slides in the corners of the bass as its body marks... ta da da... sustained ta da da... sustained (and in a higher note now) ta da daaa a trumpet regurgitates foam of pleasure. Breaking the silence the drums replace the rain and the bass is released from the stress that the drop of water exerted over it while anticipating a more fluid move.
In fact... being unheard is like being muted - I drop my breadth to the cold air. And those words flew away like drops in the wind...- Because you can not speak anymore after a while. That's why I love the ocean, it always talks to you... and as you fall asleep it whispers you the secrets of the universe and let you to forget them, at your own will.
The waves and the foam grinds the plain coast, while making love to the shore, corroding the strings of the bass I don't know if it is a grand guitar, the one that rises to the right, to the left... its just the sound of the sea. Its just Jazz for a solitary walker. Its just jazz for a solitary walker... Its just Jazz for a solitary walker...
Can you hear it? Its just that.
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