The Writings of Soul Bendorff

There is beauty in this world. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my hand and spent days simply staring, drinking it in. I’ve made beauty through my music, music that sounded like an angel’s song and pleased the maker as much as any other angel’s song could.

I was an angel. I made beauty.

And then the adoration started. There was beauty in that, too. Beauty in their faces as they looked at me, worshipping me as they’d worship a real angel. Beauty in their awe, their respect, their need to be around me.

I stopped feeling like an angel and felt like a god, instead.

It came with a price. A bigger price than simply making music had brought. That had been easy. The price was the need to make more music, to sing higher, louder, more and more. To let my guitar say all those things I never could. To forget about food and people and everything but the music.

I had people who took care of me. There was beauty in them, too. Beauty in the way they cared. In the way they did everything so I didn’t have to. “C’mon, Soul, you need a shower,” they’d say, and they’d take the guitar out of my hands.

They were beautiful. I loved them.

They went away, pushed away by the fans. The fans who took my guitar and handed me a bottle. At first, there was beauty there. Beauty in the things I saw, things I’d never see when it was me and the Oracle.

The beauty turned ugly. And here I am, stuck. I set fire to my guitar, to my precious Oracle every night. I can’t bear the noise it makes now, when once it made music. But it comes back, again and again, my Oracle. Looking for more. Looking for me. It wants to sing the songs of angels again.

I try. I try and try. But the song has left me.

And there’s no more beauty in my world.

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For more beauty, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.