no identity means infinite reality

I would say the main reason I’m addicted to music is because while I’m listening I can be in an entirely different world. More accurately, I can no longer exist.

Whatever I am ceases to be as soon as the melody takes stage. Roaming any citadel leaves me the same person, but when I finally leave myself behind I can be filled with the wonder I’ve previously learned to hesitate. Because for the past fifteen years my perspective has created such rigid structures that have gradually loosened, and yet still keep the same linearity and “facts” of our existence. Music suspends it for a moment.

To close one’s eyes and filter is to escape the modernity strongholds and the banal “bizarro”, the depresso, roam about the bazaars, sashes enveloping the walkway of pots and ceramics in tanned oranges to cyan. Cerisian Fireflies summon and while one stares up ahead the clouds link each knot of linen, in pastels of the nation, and float onward, dodging the skyruins dropping occasional erosion. The sentimental clay softened to beige, with faint marks of the ruler that day, as it plummets right ahead of you, in a gentle fall, braced by the shamans and their cloud engineerings.

Whether a zephyr or a zipline the wind washes away all my anxieties and nonsense and for a bit, so I wonder, staring at the observatory, whether those shamans shall instrument a new cloud formation for settlements. Instead of cements they pour vapours to condense, and while the vendors make the same strides for cotton candy the buoyant and rigid form has no rival, indeed, they’ve already begun the first migrations. The elk fly about and around me, with trace colors by the gust they manage.

It all vanishes when I remember “myself”.

Please, let me feel such wonder for a little longer.