Sometimes...

Sometimes I worry that I'll die unexpectedly, and no one will ever have understood the confusing jumble of thoughts inside my head.

Occasionally, I picture the inside of my mind as a teenagers bedroom.
Clothes strewn across the floor...
Piles of open books piled high upon the desk...
and no one ever cleans it.
I find lots of things there...
but so rarely what I'm looking for.
That one thought that escapes me.
Always.
And sometimes, I worry that I'll never find it.
The room will never be cleaned..
and eventually I'll forget.
And that will be it.
That scares me a little.

No one will ever have wandered in the jungle that is my imagination.
That scares me a lot.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever find my place.
If I will ever wake up one morning with no doubts lying next to me,
that I am where I'm meant to be.
So no matter where I go or what I do.
that place will follow me.
Inside me.
Always.

Sometimes I wonder.
But sometimes I don't.
Because I know I'm still searching,
And with every step forward I know where I am.

I'm getting closer.

Sometimes I think those are the greatest 'sometimes' of all.

 

That thing...

Have you ever done that thing where you notice a stranger walking past you down the street, and you think to yourself...

'That person has been lonely before. They have sat down and cried their eyes out. They have been overwhelmingly happy and indescribably sad. They have known what it's like to be disappointed, loved and forgotten. I mean, I don't know them or anything, but chances are they've known and felt all these things. Just like me.'

Then just like that, you realize how unbelievably human we all are.
And just like that, you love them.
Because they're just like you.

 

 

Why only two strings?

It has occurred to me recently, that the title of this blog may seem a little random.
Why only two strings?
There is a reason for that...

When I was still in high school, there was a youth in our community who was always making music.
It amazed me how, no matter where we were or what we were doing, he'd always find a way to do this.
I don't know how he managed it, but he did.

One day, he picked up a broken ukulele.
It only had two strings, but despite this fact he started to play.
And it was music.
Just like that.
The instrument was far from perfect, but that wasn't important.
The music was still there, as beautiful as ever - and it was anything but broken.

It really made me think about how music is all around us, all the time.
No matter who or where we are, what our circumstances may be...
There are always ways to be creative.
There is always music.
We just need to find it.

And this is how I named my blog, so I would remember.

I think often in life, it's so easy to create barriers between ourselves and the things we want to do.
Whether it's writing in a blog, recording a song or simply having an important conversation with someone.

It's scary to do these things sometimes...
To pour your heart into something and share it with the world.
What if people judge you for it?
What if people think you're 'trying too hard', a 'bit of a show off' or simply 'not good enough'.
Because 'God forbid' you present yourself as anything less than perfect.

But I'm going to tell you something truthful now. You're not.
I'm not.
None of us are...
And that's okay.

If you want to sing or dance... or you have a message you want to share with the world, go (right now) and do it in the best way you can.
Don't be afraid.
Shout it from the rooftops.
Maybe your work will be flawed... you may stumble a little or sing out of key.
But at least you're singing.

None of us are perfect, but that doesn't mean we can't still make music.

The Lonely Painter (June 23, 2012)

Imagine a painter.
A painter who loves what he does with all his heart.
A painter who loves mankind.
This painter decided a long time ago, that he was going to dedicate every waking hour of his life, to painting, not just so he could enjoy it, but so the world could. He taught himself to paint, he taught others, he painted walls and canvas and skies, all so he could TOUCH and INSPIRE people. His heart had a lot to say, and it was loud. For a long time he did this, and he was happy.

Now imagine he was taken out of this world and put into a new one, a world where nobody could see.
He could still feel his love for the colors on the canvas, and for the world around him, but his inspiration was gone. No one could see him. He was lost in a world of darkness, alone with a love in his heart he could no longer share.

It made him feel empty, like living in a glass cage in a world where no one understands.
How could they? They can't see.. they don't understand what a painting is in this world, and why should they waste much time on trying? After all, what good would it do them to spend their time trying to understand this lonely painter, who just can't figure out where he fits in?

He doesn't want their pity,
he just wants to be free.
He wants to break the glass so people could see him again,
but he can't.

So the painter's alone. Alive, but alone.
With nothing but an empty canvas.