So I listen to Lhasa. The first song plays, and the percussion of the waves give me the impression that I’m in some deserted beach at night, without a soul in sight. It makes me long for the feeling of total freedom, which is running, sans clothes, to the water’s edge. Perhaps, with a lighted cigarette between my fingers. Wading up to my thighs, the salty waves drum against me, and it reaches up to extinguish the flame of my cigarette, leaving me wrapped in silver moonbeams, and the wind is laughing at the demise.
Songs, sounds, they are all a reminder, a time machine. For each song a heart can bleed. For each note, for each curling of one’s voice, for each measured capture of breath, lies a story. Because a song is nothing more but a “Once upon a time”, and sometimes, it is a “and they lived happily ever after”, even though it is a fallacy. In songs, there are no such things as fallacies, all is truthful. The story of a whole lifetime in a lament, a yearning for who you were, where you were, what you are, in between bars and lyrics and rhymess so familiar that you swear you could recreate, had you been a sorcerer.
How can one not see the power of a song? A voice that sings is the plea to find oneself, all this by displacing that familiar voice in one’s head, replacing it with high and low pitches, or even wtih distracted humming. Drowning everything, everything, as deep as one can dig to the depths of one’s being. And yes, I do believe that songs can bring feelings of love. Because if you love, it becomes your eyes, and you see it everywhere. it’s that simple.
But I’ve gone on for too long… instead, I should just focus on Lhasa, singing, and the strains of her lamentations will be lost in the percussion of waves, just like the feeling it brought at the start of the song.
And it will make me press the Back button to repeat the song . Likea child who wants more. Like a child too idiotic to know that it is only a temporary escape. A portal to the alice-in-Wonderland sort of escape, falling into a hole.
In the strains of this voice I am so mystified in I wonder how i can get through this day. Fuck, I even wonder how i can get through this weekend. I’ll probably sleep. Deep, deep sleep, under a blanket of petals I shower myself in, with my thumb slightly touching my palm, with my eyelids closed, because I learned in Kindergarten that that is how people are supposed to sleep. Yet my sleep wil be as peaceful as it is chaotic. My sleep will be in waves, rocking me like a baby in a hammock tied between two trees in a lost paradise somewhere, the lullaby of waters from far beyond fall crying to my feet like hurt feelings I cannot fix,along with my dreams of white and black, gold and rust, amidst Karaoke laughter and whispers of love during deep dark nights unheard, in my heart and in my mind, where all is bright.
