Irking

Everything is becoming irking and unhappy.

Small details of undeniable truth, hinting more and more as it progresses through time the differences of the past and the future.

Now everything is irking, as nothing is resolved by anger, it inevitably exists. This world is full of music, and maybe someday, the world will listen to it.

No, not the music you put in those small rectangular shaped things or whatever shape they might be in, for they are music that blinds and deafens the soul. One track minds, they might say.

That music comes from deep within the Earth, so long forgotten.

There before, nothing was irking. It was complete and distinct, yet cherished and has a diminishing factor that it is fragrant, not foul.

It is silence.

Silence.

But then, I can never make that music, for I think loudly, delving into pits of my idiosyncrasies, I believe that it is in speaking that we can be heard.

Still wrong.

It is in that sweet music that erupts every now and then, a certain time when we say, "Hey, an angel just passed by," or, "Wow, a heavenly tune!"

I can never play music such as John Cage's '4'33', though I can try. But the title shall be changed to '1'00'.

Listen.

To that sweet melodic tune.

Silence.

For 4'33.