When he unfolds content so gracefully
and dwells each recess of his body
with so much intensity
When he writes, when he speaks with spirit and confidence
When his fluidness surprises, when creativity arises
At the source of these movements
Way ahead of his thoughts
Lies life in its purest form.
Raw, iconoclastic, crosswise, universal,
Life, which abides in all beings, flows in him unshackled
creating all the words, animating all the moves.
The origin of his knowledge pierces
When he sees the bottom of your eyes.
He doesn’t know much
But beyond the worlds he navigates
and the material he favours most
It’s the same life throwing itself through the guitar
the same confidence ending a vocal line
swirling with rhetoric, the same joy pulsating
which appends such a chord and a voice
letting depths revealing.
Perspectives in consciousness let him see
Let him feel the unbelievable strength of the gift.
Precisely where he could stumble :
Starting to believe he’s a genius, a master.
It simply turns out his subtle pipes
arranged themselves accordingly
and allowed the expression of life
at the heart of all beings.
Some of them, like geysers, feed the rest
and sustain enough faith in underlying fields.
As soon as the remaining puddle beside the gush of liquid
starts to think of itself as the lake of profoundness
the geyser runs dry
Leaving the stagnating puddle to its rotting fate
Parasites multiply and swarming noise settles.
When I play a concerto composed by Mozart,
with otherworldly sounds, with the childlike enjoyment,
transgressive engineering, argumentative power,
If I begin to think of myself as Mozart,
even though I might be sincerely overwhelmed by so much beauty,
the flow of creativity ends instantly.
The tap turns off
I sit alone in my muddy puddle, yelling a repellent tune.
Chances are, this gaping arrogance, born out of ignorance and inability to praise the flow, out of psychological weakness, maybe, Mozart himself would never have had it.
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