We never remember the name of every song. Music passes through the mind like the electricity of the synapses, fleeting and flowing instantly without ever a moment of memory, only an instant identity with a disappearing individuality. The system flows without the intention to be seized or understood, only to continue, and there are infinite possibilities and infinite patterns.
We are unable to hold onto each and every one of these sparks of varying potential, which is both a mercy and an injustice. On occasion, they are whispers, and on others, they are shouts. This electrical potential within your mind is ever-changing and always evolving. What choice do you have then, if you cannot understand it all instantly, than to grasp tightly at whichever one shouts the loudest and to nurture it the best you can before the sand falls between your fingers?
What I aim to do here, with everything, is to sort through the noise, find the sparks, and grasp.
