Your breath is your music. Just play

As you lie, with your eyes closed. Just breathe. Feel the rise of your chest as you fill your lungs with all that beautiful oxygen.
Focus on your breath. Feel the sensation of the air flowing in through your nose and down into your body. Send it to every corner of your body. Every single last cell is calling for that breath to be sent to it.
Take your breath consciously in and release it with full intention. Listen to the sound that it makes. Feel the feeling that it gives as your body moves to absorb and release it.

Let yourself go into yourself with your breath again and again and again. Your own, incredible, self perpetuating cycle of life. You control it and it controls you.

Let the rhythm take you onwards and make the music of your life :ǀǀ

♪Sometimes
things go wrong♪
♪I keep breathing because the rhythm
the rhythm doesn’t change and I think♪
♪it will be right if I
bring it back, it brings me back♪
♪I want to control it
but when I realized I can’t♪
♪I wanted to lose control
It must have a safeguard♪
♪The rhythm must stay the same still
I don’t want anything to change♪
♪And the music sounds terrible
Just because it’s been played before♪
♪As are words, and breathing
it has been breathed before♪
♪I don’t intend to breath
We cannot stop breathing♪

Like let’s stop with the music note bullshit. You literally cannot stop breathing on your will alone.
We cannot go against ourselves. We have a failsafe.
But I don’t love it, I don’t want to have to rely on it to live.
I don’t want to do anything that has been done before.

The thing is, you see, the thing is music gets played well and it gets played badly and there is no knowing what kind of playing you are going to here.
Sometimes it is murderous it is so bad. Suicidal even.

But there is goes. In and out and in and out and in again in perpetuity. What is the best we can hope for? A global crescendo, perhaps.

I wish to write a bar that moves round and round, circling towards a middle, thinning as it goes. The sound, growing fainter as it approaches the centre. And the audience waits in anticipation. It’s a maze you see. I see it clearly. I will have them hungry. They will not eat out of my hands. They are delicate folk these peering listeners. It is not their habit to eat from hands that feed. They come here to declare their status. I come here to disrupt it. They perform, I do too.

The distortion stops. Everything comes to a clean halt. Like a razor cutting right through leather. It isn’t delicate, this material. It doesn’t fall like silk. The silence does that. It drapes over the stage, billowing as it falls.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.

We breathe. That breath centres the bow, centres the ear, centre.
You find the centre, you find the silence. Silence has a pitch.
The delay, a loud ticking sound. Like a metronome.

A mistake really. Someone had left their pedal on.