Express Yourself

Express Yourself
The time for commentary has drawn to a close.
Expression must be recorded in order that it enter reality and not ferment in the musty recesses of mind, only to turn vinegary and sharp, unaired and hidden. It is different to the presentation of a collection of past happenings. Expression is the "es muss sein"* of now. Being witnessed is its heartbeat for without the audience, expression is lifeless. Expression is the rush of blood to the face, the breathless laughter, the unleashed sob - it is unedited. Expression is naked. Expression will not be organized into flowing sentences of choice words that are painstakingly structured to create an exact representation of the feeling, the thought, the sensation - in hope of birthing a better understanding than the one that currently torments. No. Expression is blunt and choiceless, it is not the means to a manufactured end. It is the coursing river, the bloody knee, the strike of palm on cheek, the slam of the door, the sound of your voice before it reaches my ear and the imperceptible impulse that triggers my synapse to fire in response to your inflection. It is the taste of living not the menu. It is the theatre in progress not tomorrow morning's review. It is a conversation not a meticulously prepared retort. It is unready. Expression is an unfolding that is unprepared.
Instances and happenings that are loud enough, starkly contrasting and thickly outlined enough against the scenery of daily existence, demand to be countered. A mathematical equation that requires balancing. Life jutting out its chin at you and beckoning insolently with four fingers of one hand - come on then, show me what you've got. Is this a fight? Is it a dance? Insolence invites irreverence, neurotic panic will be transformed by adopting the attitude of willful cheek in place of fear. It is a dance, this expression is a dance - a ferocious, rough tango, full of fierce lust and hot breath, of go-away-don't-leave-me, of rage and love, of perfection and fucked-up-ness, of intelligent beauty, of cell-drenching energy, of not-nearly-ready, of too-much-too-late, of pleading and bullying and eventually, of surrender. It is the question you must answer because your life depends on it. Expression. The fullness that will not be contained. The sweet overwhelm. The exhalation. The orgasm. The beginning.

{Live your fucking art.}

*From The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera