Sonata

Each person has a song. Many think that songs with words, with a voice, are the most powerful and most beautiful, but I respectfully disagree. The sonata, devoid of a human voice, but bountiful in the beautiful, natural resonance of the universe, is truly the most beautiful, I believe. Every song is utterly unique, played literally for a lifetime. And these songs often overlay upon others’ songs, creating a symphony of sorts. When two songs clash, and simply aren’t harmonious, they either remain horrid to the ear, or they depart until a harmonious tune is found. Many symphonies have moments of cacophony to provoke emotions, especially that which is difficult to bear and hard on the ears, only to return to the beautiful essence that was invoked from an individual’s very soul.

So what is your sonata? What does it sound like? How has it crossed and blended with others’ sonatas? Most sonatas are epics, are journeys for the mind and soul. But some are cut all too short, and make but brief, yet often quite powerful, songs. Tempos often vary, within each song, creating turbulence and calm, excitement and lethargy, happiness and sadness. There are spikes in pitch, as well as lows. No matter what, though, each and every song is a work of art. Something truly beautiful comes from each individual’s sonata.

My sonatas feel like they could be embodied across the vast range of Ludwig van Beethoven. Within a single song, he can make a lament, and then suddenly increase to something exciting and joyful, and then return to the slower, deeper, more lethargic elegy. Bipolar is a synonym for someone who’s life is inevitably beautiful, whether through tragedy or triumph. Sometimes the triumph comes completely from the tragedy, like a phoenix rising from the ashes and the flames, and then soaring into the sky and embodying the sun and the stars that provide us light, both utterly illuminating, and through the inevitable darkness. Moonlight Sonata and Fur Elise seem to touch my soul the most, at least as of yet. I’m not connoisseur, much to my dismay, and I know that those are two of his most popular songs, but perhaps there is a reason behind that. While many are moved by the two songs, and perhaps they do in fact touch their souls, I believe them to embody my very life essence. I’m not moved; rather, I am. I hear those songs I know that I am them.

As I see and hear the song of my life playing before me, progressing as I do, my soul feels enlightened. My eyes close and my heart opens up. Through four days of... a fairly strong depression, I’ve come to feel... high. It honestly feels like I took opioids, and yet I haven’t taken anything. I’ve spent most of my time for a few days, and for so many hours, just laying down, sleeping, or barely remaining conscious. I’ve been somewhat out of myself, and yet so aware. It’s like I’m meditating while walking about, and while utterly present. I went from feeling so, so heavy... hopelessly unable to even lift myself up, to feeling like I’m walking upon clouds. And yet, I still feel terribly heavy. It’s like my insides are made of stone, but my skin, and an aura around me, are lighter than helium, lighter than hydrogen!, lifting this heavy, awkward body into the clouds, higher and higher, until I’m past the atmosphere, and I see the glory of our world before my very eyes. And then I turn around and see the greater glory of the universe around me. This deep depression brought me joy and the ability to see clearer, and yet I fear it will be fleeting, and I will return to my ignorant, awkward, bulky, heavy self, or perhaps my oblivious, energetic, light self. Either way, oblivious or ignorant, I will be once again blinded and unaware.

But these most powerful of moods - especially the lower I go, rather than higher - the purer my soul. It’s like these occasionally, magnificent depressions are a form of ritual purification and trial after my soul becomes overly burdened by darkness and impurities. I know what it feels like to be high off of narcotics - legally, of course... The pain of my body sometimes requires their powerful effects. But I also know what it’s like to have very high manias and very low depressions without any outside agents. My own body is capable of recreating the effects of those powerful narcotic drugs without even needing such things. I know what it’s like to be addicted to drugs, and what the feelings of drugs are like, not from taking them, but simply from being who I am and experiencing life as I do, naturally. It’s beautiful and tragic. It’s a war inside me - a war for my soul. And it’s impossible to truly tell which side will, or has, won... until the dust has settled, and it is all concluded. Not until one force is totally destroyed by the other will I know which side one.

But this war waged inside me is not something terrible, necessarily. Some wars are necessary, especially those which are spiritual. Sometimes one has to prove its dominance over the other. Sometimes one has to struggle to survive against another. And struggles are what really mold the individual, for better or worse. Whichever side is winning will determine which side the soul deviates. Shall it be pure and grand, or shall it be impure and poisonous? My bipolar is truly a journey toward enlightenment, and when the war is ended, and I’ve died, all will become revealed, and it will be evident who I truly am, and where I truly lie. I have struggled very much, and so I have been molded more and more into something great, whether great for the better reasons, or for the worse.

Many raving maniacs are actually truly enlightened. This kind of enlightenment brings about something utterly irrational and incomprehensible, and sometimes this does a number to the mind. Their souls know, and their minds try to know, and they can’t help but spew the incoherent, otherworldly mess for all to hear. I hear it... Like whispers. And my spirit whispers back, so subtly and quietly. It is not in the mind, but in the spirit and the soul that this is heard. There are not voices, nothing even comparable to our universe, and yet something in me understands. My mind is boggled, and I cannot recreate it so that others may hear, but I can merely attempt to exemplify a mere, faint shadow of its greatness.

And though I am so euphoric, I am so tired... so sleepy. My eyes struggle to stay open, though it’s not even noon. I’ve slept for so many hours previously, and yet my body and my brain beg for more rest. My body remains like stones on the inside, full of granite, too heavy to hardly lift. I wish to faint, to simply snap asleep, almost comatose, as each movement requires grand effort. Perhaps... this is my cross to bear. And yet, I cyclically go through this. From the joy of life, to the burden of my cross and death, to the grand rebirth, and back to life. It replies over and over and over. Sometimes it’s a mere reflection, distorted in ripples and waves... and yet, other times, it’s as clear and real as can be.

My sonata...