When robbed of all metaphysical and spiritual overtones a life often becomes a measure of material accretion.
What does one do, however, when the limitation of consciousness betrays the hunger? Where does one go when the desire to soak up the world has far surpassed the ability of the conscious mind to assimilate and digest what the world has to offer?
It is in these questions, and, of course, the ones that led to their formation, that we find the source of a young man's grief:
Finding comfort, delight and consolation in the world of recorded music our young friend was horrified to discover that the new music that he was so lovingly accumulating was, as far as his memory was concerned, supplanting the music that was previously stored there. In short, it was crushing itself under its own weight.
His first solution, to stop collecting music was, as far as he could tell, tantamount to committing suicide - the effect being analogous with cutting off his own air supply, and, really, death is death, irrespective of what type of blade is used to slash the wrists.
His second solution, to keep collecting music (come what may) was quickly dismissed, fearing, perhaps irrationally, that once he was no longer able to recognise his own collection he would no longer be able to recognise even himself.
The third solution, to add only to his collection music that he already owned, seemed the most palatable to our friend.
After all, the thrill of the hunt was still there, as was the illusion that he was still actively partaking in the hobby that gave him life - and it is this third solution that our friend has undertaken with unrivaled relish.
However, he has made one grievous miscalculation: by only collecting what he already owns he has turned his eyes from the future - and now that the future consists solely of the past, he surely will die, his heart ripped and raped by an overwhelming, longing desire for something new.
Everyone's so lonely, I dig it.
Written on Saturday, 16 October 2004