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For less than a year, he had been working his dead end job, and the majestic facade of the American dream had faded away into the recess of his thoughts. He was life, and yet was the very epitome of death and decay. For his wages, he sought an escape from his life, to ensue reality as he saw fit. There was glory in gambling, bliss in alcohol, pleasure in women; the night air engulfed him. The city breathed his blood and tempest. He fell into the loophole of the workforce, and he fell into the perpetual loophole of his apprehension, becoming the bitter impulse of his corroding urban acropolis.

With a sigh, he guided his weathered fingers to grip his pen. Blowing the dust off his yellow Mead notebook, he emptied his life, his love, his sorrow, his body and soul into the smooth white paper. The scribbles of black on the pure slate embodied his soul and narrated the refinement and delicacy that lay dormant under the masquerade of futility. The words flowed through his bloodline and filled his lungs. With a gasp for air, as a cocoon spreading its wings for the first time, he breathed his first. A glimpse of light escaped into his eyelids as the world unfolded before him like pages of an antiquated book. As he read this book, it divulged its story to him, and in doing so, he found empty pages, lines that yearned to be filled with pieces of his chronicle.

He was a metaphor to life, a blatant outcry to those who mocked him, the resurrection of a soul that snatched its life from the claws of his society. He didn't exist, he lived; he became an animation that cursed destiny, defied fate and trampled off the beaten path of static.

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M.U.S.I.C.

opened my eyes to see

this destiny

wasn't meant for me

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