Musical Chaos
I oftentimes feel like the chaos; an intricate mix of extremity and a drizzle of infinite bits in between — in an endless void.
But science says even chaos can make sense: The chaos theory posits that mix up all of the actions and ways of your existence that innately make sense, and however chaotic your defining principles, however eccentrically confusing your being, you just might still look like a butterfly — well not in the same exact words — but the point is even chaos can have form.
Then science says it’s because the parallels of your existence, regardless of their stretch and reach, can’t resist something that is within us. Apparently, there’s a central point that defines all of your confusion; A fixed point that your entirety revolves around and regardless of the inherent bizarre of you, the definition of your very being sources from it — well, not in the same exact context.
But regardless of context or words, I am left wondering what visual my chaos paints — I wonder if it’d look like a butterfly so that its mere existence inspires humanity to take to the wind and relish in the beauty they unequivocally embody.
And what would define the form of my chaos? What essence would hold all my parallels together — put some meaning into their senselessness? Would it be my faith? Would it be Jesus?
This is how I like to think about it:
That all the world’s a stage — yeah, but a dance stage;
That this is one wild, exotic, and free dance we all have to do;
That sometimes it’s a heart-wrenching, knuckle-cracking, back-breaking ballet routine,
But that within the little gentle tinkles we’d still have due reason to break-dance, contort parts of our body we didn’t know existed, break our necks with the weight of our body and still jump up and land on our feet;
And that somehow all the staunch of our break-dance music will gently give way to soothing peaceful Jazz compositions, where we do whatever people do to Jazz music and it will go on and on.
Sometimes we will feel more lost than found;
Sometimes we’d feel more condemned than saved;
Sometimes we’ll touch to feel ourselves on the highest note of the symphony and pull up scrubs we would never recognize;
Sometimes we’ll look into the mirror of the Mark Trees and spend an eternity trying to understand how what we see is us;
We’ll spend entire compositions finding ourselves and then lose all of it before the last note of the next crescendo.
Sometimes we wouldn’t know what it means to exist, and we won’t even have the strength to want to reach out,
and our limbs will move and body frolic to music we swear we know by heart, but in a way that is so new it scares us;
And sometimes we’d want nothing more than to run off the stage — to dart towards these grave and critical onlooking eyes and find some comfort in the darkness of their bodies;
But hopefully, we don’t — whether it be because of the beauty we hear in the insistent rhythm,
or the peace we know we won’t find in that dark,
or the gentle hum of the conductor that runs clear and still through all of the chaos;
cause then — when we end the dance, finally because it is time, and not because we broke —
we might be able to look back at all the marks our feet have made,
the abstract pieces of art our sweat outlines,
our still pulsing presence the dance floor will never be rid off,
the scent of our labor,
the sound of our dance still ringing clear and strong through the crowd, and, hopefully, our chaos would have form: a form defined by our conductor, creator, our Christ;
Then we’d walk proudly off the stage into a surprisingly glorious illumination outside the spotlight,
and we’d smile cause we know whatever that was, whatever we just did back there, it turned out beautiful;
and we’d know, that we left the stage much better, much much readier for the dance of the next Saint.