The Human Expirience

"Get dirty. Get fucking filthy. Get poor. Get off your ass. Get desperate. Get dangerous. Get moving. Get productive. Get pro-active. Get started. Get your own life. Get doing something. Anything. Because before you know it, you're 40 with kids, a mortgage and responsibilities that cause your fun to come second. So before cancer, before children, before 50 hour work weeks, before back and knee problems, before school loans, before you lose your sense of humor... Fight.
Fight and fuck and run and smile. Smile because the older you get the less you will. So yes, "Quit being such a goddamn pussy." Because bitching and whining and worrying never made anything better."

Talk about reality. How many times do we sit back when we could be doing something about our lives? I will answer for myself. A LOT. People like to believe that we have time to fuck around, time to waste, time to do this, time to be that. WE DON'T. Our time is limited. Relative. Think about it. We say to ourselves, "Oh! I Can put this off until..." and when it comes around, we make another excuse. We keep pushing our goals, and what we need to do, further and further back into the recesses of our mind, and soon we forget about it. Then one day you wake up and all the time we thought we had is gone. There is no more time to do what we had planned years, months, days, even hours before.

Human beings have the impossible ability to make excuses. In fact, it seems we are ingrained with the ability to make them up on the spot. Some of us even make excuses for other people! We make excuses for why we didn't pass a test, or buy a car, or get a job, or graduate college. Make excuses for why we get divorced, why we cheat on a spouse or significant other, for why we become abusive, or why we kill people. There are a million of excuses. But think about it. How many excuses are going to pass your lips for you to realize that there is no more time for them? How many opportunities are you going to pass up before you realize that there are none left? How many people are you going to disappoint before there is no one standing at your funeral? Most importantly, how much of your life are you going to waste, making excuses for why you didn't, or couldn't, or wouldn't?

Symphony to the Impaired.

The pianist's coat tails gently fluttered as he walked across the stage, perching on the padded mahogany stool. His fingers ever so gracefully found rest on the polished keys of the elegant grand piano, and a collective sigh reverberated throughout the entire room. The tension was almost tangible as the audience waited for the first note, something to close the distance between idea, and reality, between the sheet music, and actual sound.
The pianist's hands rose in a swift movement, and suddenly, the awkward and strenuous moments of silence were abolished, sending them into a corner void of all attention. As the soft, soothing music erupted from the grand piano, an eerie chill swept across the room, issuing another gasp from those in attendance, changing the atmosphere from calm and soothing, to frightening and tense. The fierce and quick movements of the pianist's wrists caused the volume to change almost impulsively, from the whisper of pianissimo, to the clamor of a forte. The noise seemed to swallow the room in its wake as the pianist's fingers fluttered with a polished air, perfectly coaxing the piano's keys into releasing their unforgettable tune, assailing the senses of the audience. Some guests wept. Others cringed in fear. And some, a select few, saw the performance as a subtle prayer. A plea for someone to take control, to stop the pianist from losing all hold on reality. All emotions were encompassed in the harsh and subtle music of the enchanting performance.
The man's tall and straight body seemed to bend over the lamenting instrument he played, his back arching as he played faster and harder on the glimmering keys, his polished demeanor giving way to the wreckless, harsh, and cracked exterior of a man truly possessed by music. Sweat dripped from his nose onto his perfectly manicured hands, smearing all over the eighty eight, almost marking them with the stain of the music they were forced to play. The artist's body seemed to sink lower to the keyboard, and the audience could see that he was tiring, and soft murmurs parted the lips of some in attendance.
The ivories sang of their displeasure as the pianist took to the music with renewed vigor and brashness, almost berating the crowd for not having faith in the music in which entranced them all. And yet the piano still screamed out an almost bloody tune, one full of pain, and woe - enough to cause the audience to believe the pianist's soul was crying out into the depths of the theatre, calling for something, someone, to put an end to the pealing.
With a snarl, the piano reached a crescendo and then, as sporadic as the music had begun, the tune dropped suddenly, returning back to a subtle, soft melody, letting it dance throughout the theatre, the calm and gentle playing paling in comparison with the tumultuous noise before it. With one note reverberating throughout the room, the tender, soothing melody came to a halt, leaving the guests shivering at the conclusion of the pianist's performance.
A quaking hand rose from the piano, wiping the man's disheveled hair back into place, before he rose, walked to the front of the stage, made a slight bow, and calmly walked away from the unblemished and perfect piano, the marring not on its pristine surface, but on the pianist himself.