The rhythm reverberates, crisp in my ears. My muscles clench in time with the beat. It's so clean, so tight, so regular. I'm pumping my fist in time with the beat. And it hits me. This is what I've always sought, what I've always wanted. I've always had this love/hate thing for the kind of sloppy punk D.I.Y. ethos; admired it for its energy but longed for the metronomic precision of the music of my youth.
...tok...tok...tok...
And there's a reason for that. It's what I've always wanted to be. This clear, pulsing tone. The sharp, crisp hit on a tight snare head. To be so perfect, so reliable, so infallible. But it's not to be. Because I'm human. I'm biological. I'm not mechanical. Which is something I've always loathed. Push out the inefficiencies, the human frailties and failings, the weaknesses holding me from that perfection. Become that crisp, clean, tight, metronomic beat.
...tok...tok...tok...
But shouldn't I learn to love the things that make me human? Isn't the whole point of the beat to deviate from it, only to return later, all the more triumphant for the adventurous steps--leaps--away that one has taken? One cannot have a symphony of identical metronomes. Or rather, one cannot have more than one such symphony. At the very least, one should learn to dance with one's own imperfections. Learn to read their steps, anticipate, move with them, create a beautiful ballet.
...tok...tok...tok...
