I have a theory,
that the way in which we can measure the depth, the beauty, of worthiness of a song,
is if it can, in some way, serve a character, a plotline, a love-story
Even the most asinine of characters, the most simple, the most ignorant,
are wrapped in fears and human weakness, thick layers of recognizable flaws
that make them worthy of a complex and multifaceted expression.
Of an attempt at deeper understanding of what is at their core,
the place in which compassion festers but flees when it is ignored.
As we take, for instance, Juliet
to say the least,
her youth, her passion, so wasted.
The situation so avoidable if not for her brash, brazen
boldness that should not be mistaken for bravery.
we search through our oceanic stores of technological memory for a song.
A song that could serve as her theme, as her song.
That would guide her character fluidly through the history we imagine
and the story Shakespeare wrote.
And we find,
or at least I find,
that the majority of offerings that I find on the radio fall flat.
And yet somehow they are meant for our modern audience of today.
Somehow this two-dimensional, self-indulgent and oft masturbatory attempt at connection
a connection with our beings of today
is supposed to be enough.
Is this all we are worth?
Where is the desire from something beyond a genre, a label, a single emotion?
How can the atmosphere or desire for recklessness or love or both
really encapsulate all that we are?
As I drive down the road,
soaking in the pumping bass
the quick flow of words pricking soft, quick, sharp in my ears
I feel that this artist
the mind behind this music
would forgive me my sins, my flaws, the pain I have caused.
I feel that they would understand.
They would understand me.
Maybe I am two-dimensional after all.
Maybe human depth is a literary illusion.