The Sound No One Hears
Some of my stuff is silly. Some is just throwaway rock and roll. Some is personal. This is one of those.
I’ve had listeners tell me I should “make an album” or a CD, or submit my stuff to a publishing company or otherwise somehow seek some form of “success”. Thing is, I’ve already found success. What’s the point of seeking notoriety or sales? Isn’t it to facilitate some form of perceived happiness?
As I was concocting my morning smoothies I had my favorite (but sadly hapless) AI play Boston’s “More Than A Feeling”. I started thinking about Tom Scholz’ experience. (For those of you who reside in a different universe, Scholz WAS Boston to a large degree.) He spent years in his basement studio writing, arranging, recording and polishing the album that ultimately sold something like 20 million copies. That changed Scholz life, but maybe not for the better. Personal rancor, backstabbing friends, greedy record companies, years’ long endless lawsuits… I have to wonder… we chase “success”… why?
Yet at the same time, I write stuff and post it – often to what feels like a collective yawn. Do I want “success”…? Really, I already have it – I get so much joy just from creating and listening to this stuff… what more do I want?
It’s a truism – Q: how much is enough? A: more. To bring it to a personal level – how many listens/likes/shares/comments would be enough?
I don’t know the answer to that.
That having been said, I’m glad for the internal struggle to sort it out for myself. That indicates to me that – at the very least, I’m not just another sheeple, blindly following the herd.
Lyrics:
If a flower blooms for a day and only I see,
Does it still count as beauty meant to be?
If the fabled tree falls and only I hear,
Is that sound still real, or does it disappear?
I play and sing to an empty room,
My echoes rise, then fade away too soon.
The night creeps close, like it knows my name,
But the dark and I—we’re much the same.
(Unseen… unheard…)
Maybe silence is just the truth unveiled,
A note too fragile to be hailed.
If no one listens, does the song still live?
Does the night still take what I can’t give?
This faint unease – it feeds my fears,
Is that the sound no one hears?
(Is that the sound no one hears?)
There’s beauty bleeding through the cracks,
A fading voice – I’m afraid it won’t come back.
The moon looks down but doesn’t speak,
Her silver touch feels soft, but bleak.
Every truth is half-remembered,
Every flame, a dying ember.
Still I sing into the hollow air,
Hoping someone’s ghost is there.
If no one listens, does the song still live?
Does the night still take what I can’t give?
This faint unease – it feeds my fears,
Is that the sound no one hears?
(Is that the sound no one hears?)
If a flower blooms unseen,
If a song fades between—
Was it ever really here?
Or just the sound no one hears?
(Still here…)
(Still here…)