I’ve been a slave to the rhythm of my soul. In my life I’ve felt so strongly the call of my passions that I passed through life in a dreamy haze, never feeling quite awake except for those moments of clarity, sometimes calm and sometimes a brilliant beam of anger.
I could never deny that languid voice of reason. When the group went right I went left. I wandered off the map. Like Columbus I confidently went to find the lost paradise, thinking I knew the way because the earth is round, because of my conviction in my beliefs I wouldn’t listen to anyone. With persuasion I asked my sponsors to bet my life on it. Until I found that virgin continent, ancient and modern. Quis hic locus? Quae regio? Quae mundi plaga? What world is this?… What kingdom? What shores of what worlds?
What world did I find? Filled with terror and nightmares and dreams and wonder beyond anything I could ever imagine.
The minor chord, the subtle tragedy that weaves into my life, led me to desolate and lonely and dangerous neighbourhoods. It broke my walls and then my windows and then my eyes and my skin, demanding to be let inside, until it found me. I found myself one day crushed on the floor, beneath the floor, beneath the darkened stairs in a room in a basement where no one knew where I was. Down to the cellar of a silent family history, I found a reason to open my palms and held a power, a love I had never known. It was the first time I had heard my name. At first I mouthed the sounds silently, overtime I whispered. Slowly, cautiously, I let others hear it. I watched carefully their expressions. And then I said it out loud, from the top of a skyscraper, from the podium of a concert hall. I told them the story of my hope, my undeniable courage, my confounding strength. I told them how I did it the wrong way, and how it got wronger and wronger, until it felt right, more right than anything I’d ever known to exist. That was how I knew that I was real.