By Donnique Williams
Thoughts are not like music. They don’t have to make sense. Coherence. That’s an arbitrary rule for dynasties past.
Chaos. Wilderness. Insensibility. That is beauty.
Music captures it. Legendary symbols, a code of sounds that mean nothing to the naked non-musical eye. The symbols only come alive when he closes his physical eyes, listens with his fingertips, with the flinching of his cheeks, with the intensity of hazel eyes that decode the dashes and hallow circles.
Until there it goes.
Stops and goes.
Stops and goes, only because he hasn’t mastered the harmony of code and fingertips.
Of gentleness and passionate touch.
So he stops. Stares.
Flinches his rosy cheeks and presses on.
Uncompromising. Insensible. Noisy. Incessant. Beautiful. Chaotic.
Like flying thoughts reaching for higher heights, collapsing on the clouds below. Never ceasing to reach farther each time.
No completeness. Not yet. No sense. Not to anyone but him.
No sense, not to anything.