Horizon, distance, mirage. Horizon, distance, mirage.
It’s as if you could listen to the photosynthesis of freakishly huge flowers found only in humongous rainforests. Or being in a limit, or a perimeter, or a forcefield, or a shield. It’s the sound of a period of absence that lasts — and is — a lifetime. An edge of a world. A landscape of quantum foam, where you finally step away from the center of the world, willfully. It’s the slipping away of life, of ego, of time. In the mountains, in a veil, in a clarity, where monks meditate and the Instagram accounts are wordy, motivating, and positive. And even beyond that. There is suffering even in this bliss. We are all in flight from reality; life readies you for not living. Our mutual misunderstanding of ourselves and of others means that music hinges on vast approximation. No consensus, just interpretation. The miasma of our brainlessness as we prowl the hours, trying not to stray off the chosen path. Chaosmosis, from one genre of music to the next, our emotions and bodies constantly changing. “In order to actualize a possibility, a disentangling potency is needed,” says the Italian philosopher Franco Berardi. To disentangle yourself, listen to Zephyr. Listen to it as if it were wind or warm weather or water. Ask yourself: Does a guru have time for Facebook? (Does the Pope?) What’s an ego to an ambient musician? (And do they listen to pop music?) Can your lifelong struggle to render yourself compatible with capitalism end? Can it? We always have to come down from our high. Zephyr knows that, and thusly contains New Age’s Fatal Flaw: that an emancipative illusion can only haunt the music, but never actualize. Moreover, anxiety lurks in the euphoria, because the euphoria is timed. A void guzzles the void. The abyss smiles at your skull. Ghosts all agleam wander with their aching. And when we enter Heaven, we have to pay an entrance fee.
Horizon, distance, mirage. Horizon, distance, mirage.
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