Things have changed, and change is no longer a hopeful game-winning dogma

Sometimes I listen to Bach toccatas. This you would only know if you have lived with me or knew me in high school. Toccatas, from the Italian to touch, are generally virtuosic pieces written for clavachord or organ. The most famous Bach toccata is the Toccata and Fugue in D minor, a brooding organ work often heard in conjunction with Halloween. While some of these works are joyous, it is no stretch to say that in these works I find an ominous complexity that suits my darker moods. I inherited a desire to hear similar forms by Chopin and Shostakovich who pen, respectively, newer and newer incarnations of the form. It is possible that I went on to become a hearald of the apocalypse in the vein of this musical tradition.

Like the music, in its indifferent exactitude, I find the circumstances of my life inspiring a deep, sullen contemplation. I turn to the music to reflect my perception, and now too, my life has ventured into a sort of dark cave, where organs play in minor chords and resolutions come rarely at the end of phrases.

I considered moving home today, the first time since I left a year and a half ago. Instead of panic-stricken, the notion engenders a horrifying resignation; it is the sense of defeat that moves one to inaction; it is the kick in the ribs you feel when you're already down for the count.

There is always hope, but that now too is a term bankrupted by dogma.