this is real

Too much inspiration and my head’s exploding. Inspiration locked behind concrete walls, I mean, not my own. Hanging from the ceiling shedding little glass dew drops, a million influences and creative fireworks. Listening to grime and my god how I get transported through glass tunnels to a bright place. I’ve discovered new tunes and it’s as if an arm is stretching out. I want to become a part of that, snitch little pieces of classical stuff and throw them into a beat. Wear my Metamorphosis skirt and play games with my own creations. Sunlight spilling in and I know there’s a secret in the shadows. I’m trying to listen to it, grasping fragments. Whispers of that thing not existing yet. When I created my own stuff, it was only in retrospect that I saw it was all one. How is that possible? It’s backwards. The theory of chaos, that’s not how it works. Yet those threads of ideas were veterans of the next. My scribbles of notes, nonsense in pencil. I didn’t know why I did what I did until I did and then I knew. Lines go backwards and forwards, up and down, nothing is constant except chaaaaange. I’m off the drugs now, no more madness. This is real though.