AMKent books

Part 3

The Philosophy of Silence

Certain corners of anthropology suggest that music is inspired by birdsong, a mimicry of creatures so free that they inspired our angels. The soldier playing Bach, he violates us with his resurrected melody, all sound does so. It does not ask for consent to enter our being, it is low effort to produce, a simple clap or hum brings it forth.

“What is your point? That music is a great violation of sensibilities like yourself?”

No, not at all. Acoustic meaning requires negative space, something to contrast against. All animals arrived to this conclusion, the signalling of their intentions, emotions, tribalism and souls through vibrations and resonance. Resonance is a purely physical phenomenon, an eternal truth that was not constructed but uncovered, mathematically inevitable, harmony was that which stared back in the abyss of silence, old woman. I am no physical phenomenon, I am negative space, the antithesis to God created by the musicality of its ego.

“So, you and music are both eternal truths? Even if different.”

You said before that I am not anything novel, that is where you were most wrong. As long as I function within the conditions this reality requires, I am incapable of being anything new. That is why I must leave. Eternal truths are a privilege of things that persist. End the persistence, and truth starves. Beyond time, nothing survives long enough to be certain.

“How ironic, you are the postmodernity you despise so much.”

Clever you are, rooting around in my ashes looking for remnants of the me before. The soldier has not stop playing, see! He knows it all from his mind, his muscle memory, time given rewards him with the playback of its recordings. Bach would write ‘Soli deo gloria!” on his music.

“To God alone the glory?”

Shall I treat my dismantling of the master with the masters tools as a divine ode? A Bach of blasphemy? When the girl, Angelica, entered the utopia of paradise, where the Hive resides. I heard music, for a brief moment before the splendour was sealed, so, I knew that our God speaks in musicality much the same as ourselves. But I am no longer a vehicle to the parasite, and I believe this girl is still alive in some shape or form.

“I hope she evades you if she still lives.”

She cannot. For the compass of decay has begun to point, and she will follow, finding it leads to me.

“No rabbit will come to this hound.”

The increase of entropy cannot occur without the existence of time. We are entangled and only one of us realises so.

“I think you underestimate her. You are so used to your violence and pontifications merit that you forget what that muse did to you, the ease of which it did. Remember how you were left behind when she was invited to paradise? Are you not repeating the cycle? Wandering through decay with the belief that you are the one to pull the architects thread?”

She is entropy. Not disorder, but ignorance. The more she unfolds, the less can be said of her. Position dissolves into probability. I was such a thing when I wrestled the muse to humanity, but now I am something, transcendental.

“Ah, now none of the laws apply to you. It would almost be clever if not so self-serving and misguided.”