Where Your Head Is

Here’s some words. Here’s some more words. Look. Words, words, words. I’m very good with words. I have the best words. It’s the ideas that are the problem. Pardon me for falling back on a mental block again (or should I be falling over a mental block [or even just stubbing my toe on it {BRACKETS!}]), but I’m struggling with this again. It’s late, I impose this deadline on myself to get something written, even if it’s crap, because apparently my brain favours quantity over quality and regularity over necessity. Then again, if this was was about necessity, there’d be nothing bloody here. None of this is necessary.

Am I going down some nihilistic thought train here? Is any of this necessary? Is life necessary? Or is it all just-

Oh, shut up moron-head, stop taking yourself and this life experience so seriously. Don’t make me drag up that argument you had with your brain a few months back. And stop mixing pronouns, will you? This is me talking to me, not you. And you’ll be damned if I’m going to start you off on some confusing ramble that doesn’t make sense to any of us or them.

This is a shit one. Sorry, me. I mean you. I don’t mean to have some kind of bizarre schizophrenic discourse with me but that’s where your head is at the moment, and there’s nothing I can do to empty that fuzziness from out of our brain. All you can hope for is that I’ll be better again soon, even though we both know I probably won’t be because we’re one singular person and referring to yourself as “we” could well be an early sign of madness.

But then again, I singularly know I’m not the most mentally stable person that ever lived. You need to go to bed.

---

Experimental noise isn’t usually regarded a great form of casual listening. It’s often left for arty-types who engage in kinds of postmodern immersive museum exhibits, where the participant is shoved into a darkened room and made to put their hands and bare feet inside boxes filled with substances of differing textures. All the while, gale force winds are blasting them in the face and something like this is played at maximum volume with added distortion.

Imaginary art installation aside, I’ve found this to be quite soothing (although at a more regular volume) thanks to its “one-level” tone and repeated reassurance that “it might be over soon”. What “it” refers to, I suppose, is up for interpretation, like all the bad things in your life or the distressing art form experience or the confusion you get when looking at the track listing for Bon Iver’s new album and wondering if they’re simply just leaked passwords for someone’s WiFi. Whatever it is, the fact that it’s “over soon” is much more comforting than it being “over sinfinityinfinityn”.

Bon Iver – 22 (OVER S∞∞N)