Wooh, I wrote a ficlet! I hope you people enjoy my metaphorical drabble.
Edit April 27th, 2004: That simply/simplify error was bugging me. So, I went and fixed it. Am not sure what I think of this anymore.
Music
By Eike
Music isn't just singing. It's a way of life.
Music isn't about the words, it's about the emotion.
Music isn't anything: it's everything.
Music is soul.
And soul: soul is music.
The sad thing was that most people lost view of this simple truth. In this day where "personal" was replaced with "digital"; where everything was rated by speed, not quality; where quantity had pushed aside the power of a single word – yes, this was the world that had forgotten what it meant to create a thing of beauty, to create a human soul.
So he had pushed aside all of the bindings of modern society and let his soul play for all those gone astray. He created the music for all who forgot what it was to be alive, for all those that had forgotten what it meant to be human.
Yet no one understood. Yes, his music was loved, but they didn't understand it. They didn't hear the soul of it all. They heard the voice, they heard the melody, the beat, the rhythm, but they didn't hear the whole. He wasn't trying to teach them about himself, he wanted to show them themselves. He wanted his songs to stir up the long gone memories of heart, the memories of pure happiness unhampered by reality.
But they didn't hear it.
And slowly, he lost faith. His songs got slightly angrier, a different message now.
And even the most die-hard fans couldn't detect the difference.
His songs became more feverish in the attempt to simplify – or perhaps obscure, for everybody expected the message to be hidden. His frustration grew when he heard others copying his style, defiling his sound.
And then, in a fluke accident, he found what he had searched for: somebody as attuned to the soul as he was. Somebody who knew what he was singing about.
He wanted to latch onto the other half of his music and never let go.
But this music kept trying to escape. It was fickle, shy, unripe. It often sullied truth with misconceptions, and sometimes even slipped from living to dead, from real to digital, from here to outer space and miles away.
He gave gentle tugs, occasional pushes. He knew that, like deer, this music could flee at the slightest agitation. You had to be gentle, praise and criticize and support.
Yet all his progress always came undone when the dead called for the music. Didn't the dead know that the music belonged to him? He was the only one who even knew what it was, what it wanted.
Soul gave Music a little shove.
Ryuuichi pressed his lips against Shuichi's.
And Music slipped to its rightful world.
-owari-