Futuristic

You're sitting on the bus, and you plug your headphones into the radio. But what you hear has nothing to do with the landscape you're used too. The sounds that seem crawling into your brain and attaching themselves to the air you breathe in are like nothing you've heard before. 

What is it like?

Mozart never got lost, but almost no one goes around listening to medieval troubadours songs through their iPod. I think. On the other hand, Neil Young may not be selling as many vinyls as for thirty years ago, but there are still people who'd rather listen to him than to Lady Gaga. 

Anyways, it's all there. Centuries of music behind our shoulders. Some peculiar people spend their time accumulating music as if they were hamsters. And as if the songs were peanuts. So at a certain point you do come to the question "and then?".

After the hardest rock, after the roughest rap, after the most pacifically rebel and strange indie and after the most experimental electro. What will there be? Where's the music going?

It's hard to take, but in fifty years again we'll be out of date, just like the music we listen to. Will everybody walk around listening to sounds instead of melodies, or to wordless songs? Would that be possible, abandoning the poetry and all the beautiful words that are now floating around in rivers of notes? Will we be listening to something divine, amazing, something with therapeutic effects? Will the poetry once again abandon its bigger friend and find a new one? 

What song will you have on the top of your playlist in fifty years?

I'm just so curious!

This is black

Too fast, bro.

It's all happening at the same time. And it's always the same. And you always think "All of this is soon is gonna be over. And when it's over, I'll sit down and deal with myself, with the little cynical beast and with the little cornerlip-lady."
Truth is, you never stop. A new book is handed to you before you've finished the one you have in your hand under the table and before you've even come halfway through the one you're pretending to read. The one in front of you on the table. Or maybe you choose a new book yourself, -here we go, no blaming "the world" or "the others"-.
And stop pretending it's a matter of time- groans the little beast. It's just you. How many times have you been told you wanted too much at the same time?
Call it living overdose, your constant getting drunk of plans could seem a little distructive. Your wanting all of the world, your strong desire to be in a hundred-and-fourty places at the same time without letting anyone down.
When plans crash, though, you simply admit that all of that is your fault, you take the hit. But you never learn your lesson. You run away for a new one. And after a couple of years you look at yourself. Nothing has changed, you're still running at the speed of light.
You missed a pair of closed eyes. Were you lazy or frightened? Does it really matter, will it make the sense of guilt disappear? I don't think so.
But not even that can stop your feet, you half-cracked heartbeat and breath. You find the hands you've grown up with, the ones that were smaller than yours and that are now bigger. And you smile, because no matter what they'll be there. Well, that's your way of telling yourself the story. You two are gonna spend your lives running and catching up like if that was the best thing to do. It makes you feel like everything has always been right, like the people that told you that you you were doing too much were wrong. You know they never were, but then. There lies the difference between mind and pulsions, and you were never really good at being rational anyways.