It is considered high praise of a musician’s talent for him to be instantly recognizable by his playing of an inert instrument (of wood or metal)
from which players normally all get the same sound;
to the rebel’s ears, this as played out in man’s thoughts-come-words
is anything but praiseworthy;
it is one thing to hear just a couple of notes from an electric guitar,
and immediately know that the performer is Ike Turner,
but another gaggle of blues to hear just the beginning of an idea being expressed,
and instantly realize from whom it comes –
and worstest of all (for the certain man) is having the latter going on constantly
in the private performance room of your own consciousness.
 

From a fun time view, it’s life back to its old practical (or impractical, it’s hard to say) jokes in man’s 4-D world;
a painter is lauded for his creativity, which plays out as
his work being always identifiable by his particular style:
his originality is exemplified by his consistency --
and so too is it in the realm of ideas  --  except therein is not as amenable to metaphorizing as in the areas of pickin’ & paintin’.
 

Philosophers, novelists, metaphysicians, political and social commentators,
and all other merchants-of-words,
should they become well known and acclaimed as unique talents in their field,
are unwittingly known for being verbally consistent,
and readily identifiable --  not for originality or creativity, and yet,
(ha ha  --  another good one, life) those are the very two words used to most honor
one performing in the inner theatre whose recognition is clearly based on the fact that he is anything but.
 

As always, this ongoing species wide mirage is of no personal significance to
the certain man (once he has seen it in the round for himself);
he is not bothered that originality and creativity are continually spotted by
ordinary men in their ordinary lives while being totally absent therein,
(there is no irony in a blind pig admitting that it can’t see where its going even while successfully rooting, nor is anything condemnable in the baby talk of babies).
As always, a man suited to the pursuit of getting-to-the-bottom-of-things
finally has no non physical interest in anyone but himself
(what interest has an eagle in the activities of swine:
each-to-its-own-way  is the name of that tune),
and specifically in the instant instance, his attention is on
the verbal songs/thoughts being continually played in his mind, which,
via their familiarity --  yea! -- in SPITE of their familiarity –
his consciousness embraces as being creative and original;
what else indeed does routine consciousness have to use as an identifying marker
of its/your individuality?!
 

By the time you are old enough that adults begin to mention that you are starting to display your own unique personality --  it is a done deal;
you are Rubinstein being praised for his recognized touch,
with (to state the obvious) no interest or concern in the mundane milieu
that everything you play (think & say) always comes out rubinsteinian;
in man’s ordinary world this is anything but a drawback: contraire --  a key to fame.
 

But a man whose secret talent is a burning irritation to understand what is going on with the intangible side life,
accepting the routine as exceptional –
proclaiming plagiarism to be creativity  --
thinking in the same language as everyone else  –
will all split-your-lip, and break your pickin’ & paintin’ fingers.
 

Music (as all arts/intangible enjoyments) is founded on familiarity:
it’s all Top Forty whether it be played in CBGB, or Carnegie Hall;
nothing inedible is ever popular unless it be readily identifiable;
true with music, literature, religion, painting, politics,
and all proffered explanations of the nature of man;
the civilized structure of mankind’s collective existence cannot stand
sans the support of this scheme;
the intangible reality unique to man seems (from his view) to be constantly expanding  --  improving  --  becoming more meaningful, insightful, informative,
but the apparent, the specious changes  that occur therein
operate at such a glacier tempo anyway that ordinary men’s consciousnesses
pretend to overlook their incessant repetitiveness (which presents no
practical problem in that it matters actually not what time Cinderella gets to the ball).
 

So even though all the arts and other matters that make up entirely,
man’s mental-only reality, are derivative and appear to change, grow,
and keep-up-with-the-times but gradually --
careful always not to endanger the stability of civilization, or individual men’s minds,
the actual “reality” of that non physical reality unique to man,
substantially  --  changes not  --   thus can grow not;

Only those 99.99999% of humans whose consciousness is programmed normally
live acceptably with this in their own head,
and its playing out publicly among men collectively;
the familiar is popular  --
all that is popular is familiar,
and each man’s non physical individuality is based on the familiarity & predictability of his non physical life (his thoughts and words);
one of the point, quad-zero, one percenters however cannot forever live under
the squeeze of this widely popular and comfortably familiar illusion;
he eventually understands (and ergo accepts & forgets-about)
that the normal, incorporeal world, such a large part of man’s life,
does not allow true originality or personal creativity,
such literally cannot live/appear therein  --
it requires a certain man move mentally  --
energizing an area of his brain/consciousness not native born active  --
a part of his mind that plays not in the keys and scales standard to mental music,
nor paints in the styles or mediums recognized --
his consciousness ceases to involve itself in any affair that comes to it
in the form of man’s unnoted, common language.