The strange thing about going down the rabbit hole… that metaphor for the deepness and complexity of what lies beneath the world commonly called reality… is that sometimes you come back with souvenirs—like this little scribbling, which I’m pretty sure is the beginning of some operatic rock song. But I suppose the point is really this:
I sometimes wonder why I get these kinds of things at all.
Do you ever feel the same way when you get some inspiration?
I mean, if there was actually a rabbit down that rabbit hole and I could have a conversation, I’d ask, “I just don’t understand why you give me these notions and scraps of music. Sure, the rabbit hole is the same wellspring from which comes all the regular writing I do, and sure. I can translate all that stuff with ease. But I can’t even play most of the music you give me, and I certainly can’t sing it that well. Don’t you know how frustrating that is for me? I mean, don’t you think you’d do better to give all this stuff to someone else?”
But that rabbit… of that rabbit… just seems to excitedly bounce off to the next scribbling or scrap while saying, “Oh and this! You should have this! It might go with that other scrap. Oh and this! Take this as well!”
Seriously? Am I just some deliveryman?
I guess I love that rabbit, but I also think I want to strangle him sometimes, because on top of everything else, he gives me stuff like this bit of scribbling you’re reading right now.
Was I even supposed to post it?
Does it go with something else?
Does it go with ANYTHING?
Am I simply the last one at some tea party that’s been over for years?
Or am I simply helping set some table to which people will eventually come after realizing they’ve been away in some dream for far too long.
I guess I’ll never know for sure, but if the former is the case, then I guess I’d better just learn to live with that rabbit and enjoy the fact that he’s still talking to me.