I am contemplating entropy, that ongoing rush to a less ordered state, and the resulting decline and dissolution of form to component elements and molecules. I live surrounded by beautiful things: paintings, photographs, pottery, glass, all gradually decaying from the pristine condition that existed at the completion of their making. The bowl is already broken.
All the things I make, and all the things I’ve made will wear away. Ink will fade. Paper will crumble to dust. Pigments will discolor. Glue will release its grasp. Yarn will wear thin or be eaten by wool-loving moths. The vegetable garden will go to chickweed and wire grass (it’s well on its way) and the “perennial” flowers will either live out their expected life spans and die, or be choked out by their more Darwinian companions.
Of everything I make, it is Music – most ephemeral, least corporeal – that escapes entropy’s clutches. The strings’ vibrations radiate outwards from my harp and create ripples that lap the shores at the edge of the universe. Creation’s particles surf the sound waves to infinity.
Is it some wonderful irony, or is it a reflection of the true nature of reality, that Music, existing as idea and memory and vibration, without form or shape or weight or mass, lives forever?