If emotion is the music echoing from the vibrating strings of the bloody bits and chemicals we are composed of,
my heart's incredulity shows Beethoven to have been a sissy and my depth of passion paints Mozart in caricature. (Yeah, I said it.)
Mark Twain had a point about the river, with mastery and knowledge dissolving the mysterious beauty within...
but the river of feeling is more unpredictable than any hand at the wheel could hope to master during a life afloat.
The very nature of the fabric that our Universe is stitched upon is deep red in tooth and claw,
so is it wrong to believe at any point that there is no reason to struggle on? There's no middle ground.
With questions always, doubts for mortar, I build purpose and feel in my bones there's no other choice.
An infant I began, and an infant I remain, with a saddness that keeps company many dark nights,
crying my discombobulated petitions for sense in words that average out into the background noise of time.
(with very sincere apologies to Tennyson, and anyone who actually read this through.)