And I am not going to let my words interfere. Just read this.

ooOOoo

Clear the Needle

Who is she,
if she does not even know herself?

Trajectories confuse
when forced
into linear containers..

Like the cosmos —
all spirals and orbits —
we spin and dance,

sometimes skillfully,
sometimes clumsily.

The vinyl record spinning,
fine dust collecting
on the diamond needle.

We must stop
from time to time
and clear it

so that we might perceive sound
more accurately,
truer to itself.

I have collected
more than my share
of detritus.

But I have never been granted
the grace of someone or something
clearing the needle for me.

It remains a reminder
to pause.

Stop the music.
Lift the arm.
Clear the cartridge.

Begin again.

ooOOoo

Not only was Bela’s poem perfect so, too, was the comment left on Bela’s site from Shakti that I am going to share in full.

Hi Bela,

I found in the verse a striking metaphor for the human condition. 

We spend so much of life assuming the music has changed, when often it is the dust on our own needle that has altered the sound. Memory, hurt, ego, assumptions, fatigue—each leaves its fine sediment, subtly distorting how we hear ourselves, others, and the world. 

The most profound act, perhaps, is not to keep forcing the song forward, but to pause with enough honesty to ask: what in me is creating this static? The verse’s quiet power lies in rejecting rescue—no one may come to clear the needle for us. Self-awareness, then, becomes both responsibility and grace. To stop. To clean. To begin again—not as the same listener, but as a truer one

Shakti

“To begin again—not as the same listener, but as a truer one“

As I said, a perfect comment.