Maybe be slightly offensive to some for some mild sacreligious ideas.
"Gods and Alarm Clocks"
by Thorne N. Melcher
Brrrrrrrrp. Brrrrrrrrp. The incessant racket of the alarm clock broke the bliss of a pleasant dream that already had begun to slip from my preoccupied mind. 7:00. Time to get up, but some subconscious force commands me to hit the snooze button. This set of events repeats itself at 7:05, again at 7:10, and, yes, at 7:15, until finally, at 7:20, I make the long 3-yard trudge to the bathroom and idle under the warm shower, which lulls me back into a sluggish state. My sleepy stupor is easily cured with a Dew from the ‘fridge, as I devour the sugary food of the gods, Trix. No new e-mails fill my inbox, and no new excitements fill my life.
The tedious drive to school almost overpowers the miracle drug, caffeine. The musical scents of Spring and the perfume sounds of morning are drowned out by the harmonized cacophony of the millions of others living lackluster lives, driving to work, schoo—bah, who cares, it’s all the same. Millions upon millions living out existences full of sameness. Identicalness rules over individuality, uniformity over expression. Carbon-based life forms are easily made into carbon-copy life forms.
But that is why some are blessed with the artist’s eye. Music. Drawing. Writing. Film. True emotions, true beauty, and true meaning are tucked in the most unlikely of places. Tears of sorrow and tears of joy. Bohemians and rock stars. Toulouse La’trec and Jimmy Page. Artists, they paint and they paint, with paint and with words.
Artists are storyshowers, not storytellers, bringing the subtle, soft scent of a lover or the chilling pain of death to life within our hearts, giving a soul to the soulless. Gods do exist, but everyone has it wrong. The painter is god, the poet is god, the musician is god, breathing life into the intangible, creating worlds more perfect in their imperfection than our own. Art is the panacea to the plagues of reality.
But reality comes once again; school, the land where make-outs and break-ups seem to be the only thing on anyone’s mind. Popularity, it seems, is just an extra dose of Vitamin Sameness, the stuff the Surgeon General doesn’t warn you about.
In chapel, they tell me to believe in God, trying to “save” me from my atheism, but there is something I don’t tell them; it’s my little secret. I believe in gods: Bowie and Coppola, Brown and Shakespeare, and even old Ludwig Van too. My Bible exists in every poem written and every song sung, which means that the Christians are right for once—the divine is omnipresent and omnipotent, but contrary to their views, polytheistic. Art is the salvation for the inquisitive mind, breaking free the chains of drab uniformity.
Life inevitably falls into the same repetitive, circadian routine of alarm clocks and worn-down paths, but sweet freedom can always be achieved by those who are just willing to open their artistic eye.
Nah, this is more of a one-time dealie... I still am grateful of your 1st Zemitra Report, and I don't expect another one, you've already spent enough time on me. ^_^
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