Thursday
Music is my radar
For me, a love for music is a love that needs no reason, confusion or technicalities. It is a love that needs no gimmicks, or embarrassment or long words. It is a love that needs no apologies. It is a love, quite like real love, that has no boundaries. If you love a particular band or song or album, chances are that it, quite simply, agrees with your ears, your head and your heart all at once. For me, that is a more perfect reason than any other to keep listening to that band, or song or album until it becomes a part of you. Talk about it, rave about it, gush about it constantly. It makes you happy, and that, for me, is reason enough.
Soundtrack to my life
I wrote this while thinking about someone very special to me :)
His voice is always in my head, even when he’s miles away. It is, unarguably, one of the most comforting things you could ever hope to experience. Much like waking up every morning, breathing, or walking, it is not something I particularly think about on a daily basis. I just simply accept that it is there, in my ears. I hear it, in the form of his childlike, full-bellied laugh, when I am watching something funny on television. I hear it in the form of his deep, effortless, beautiful singing voice when I’m listening to a song that he loves or knows all the words to. I hear it, when I am sad, in the form of his gentle, comforting, warm, compassionate voice. His calm, familiar voice is, in a way, the most precious soundtrack to my life. Press play.
His voice is always in my head, even when he’s miles away. It is, unarguably, one of the most comforting things you could ever hope to experience. Much like waking up every morning, breathing, or walking, it is not something I particularly think about on a daily basis. I just simply accept that it is there, in my ears. I hear it, in the form of his childlike, full-bellied laugh, when I am watching something funny on television. I hear it in the form of his deep, effortless, beautiful singing voice when I’m listening to a song that he loves or knows all the words to. I hear it, when I am sad, in the form of his gentle, comforting, warm, compassionate voice. His calm, familiar voice is, in a way, the most precious soundtrack to my life. Press play.
Why stand on a silent platform?
My recollection of seeing Rage Against The Machine at Reading Festival 2008.
I remember forcing my way to the front of the crowd.
I remember the cold metal of the barrier digging constantly into my chest.
I remember the warm bodies of the people around me.
I remember the exhausted but excited faces of my best friends next to me. I will always remember them.
I remember hearing chanting and singing, laughing and shouting, talking and whispering.
I remember the darkness falling gradually like a giant black sheet, glowing with tiny delicate stars.
I remember my aching feet and cold ears.
The cold. I remember the cold, starting from my feet and creeping its way upwards.
I remember lights; shining, darting, moving, beautiful.
I remember the feeling of belonging, of unity, of power.
Power. Power. Power.
I remember the entire crowd lifting their fists and raising them in the air.
I remember wanting the moment to last a lifetime.
I remember forcing my way to the front of the crowd.
I remember the cold metal of the barrier digging constantly into my chest.
I remember the warm bodies of the people around me.
I remember the exhausted but excited faces of my best friends next to me. I will always remember them.
I remember hearing chanting and singing, laughing and shouting, talking and whispering.
I remember the darkness falling gradually like a giant black sheet, glowing with tiny delicate stars.
I remember my aching feet and cold ears.
The cold. I remember the cold, starting from my feet and creeping its way upwards.
I remember lights; shining, darting, moving, beautiful.
I remember the feeling of belonging, of unity, of power.
Power. Power. Power.
I remember the entire crowd lifting their fists and raising them in the air.
I remember wanting the moment to last a lifetime.
I wasn't born to lose you
I wish my words were more than words.
I wish they were stars, so they would glitter and sparkle and shine, for infinity.
I wish they were your favourite battered vinyl, so you could listen to them over and over again and smile.
I wish they were an endless jar of Marmite, so you could spread them on your breakfast and enjoy them with your morning toast…
Who knows when you will read this.
Maybe in a few hours time.
Maybe in a few days, or weeks, or months.
Or maybe, years and years from now you will come across these words; dusty and faded but not even a fraction less true than when I first scribbled them down.
Maybe you will hold them with your rough, wrinkled hands, and maybe you will read them from behind the delicate glass of your spectacles, and maybe, just maybe, you will understand what I really mean when I say ‘I love you’.
I wish they were stars, so they would glitter and sparkle and shine, for infinity.
I wish they were your favourite battered vinyl, so you could listen to them over and over again and smile.
I wish they were an endless jar of Marmite, so you could spread them on your breakfast and enjoy them with your morning toast…
Who knows when you will read this.
Maybe in a few hours time.
Maybe in a few days, or weeks, or months.
Or maybe, years and years from now you will come across these words; dusty and faded but not even a fraction less true than when I first scribbled them down.
Maybe you will hold them with your rough, wrinkled hands, and maybe you will read them from behind the delicate glass of your spectacles, and maybe, just maybe, you will understand what I really mean when I say ‘I love you’.
I wish that for just one time, you could stand inside my shoes, and just for that one moment, I could be you...
People are fascinating things. The amount of feelings and emotions we give away, purely by our facial expressions and body language, is incredible.
I love that strange feeling you get when you calmly and absentmindedly people watch in public places; half asleep, half awake, half daydreaming, and afterwards you can’t help but feel like you’ve taken a little piece of them home with you.
For that short period of time their worries become your worries, their happiness becomes your happiness, and their life becomes more fascinating, heartbreaking and intriguing than anything else you could ever imagine.
I see an old man pick up a newspaper and notice that the creases in the pages mirror the ones etched on his forehead, and I wonder what could bother a man so old and wise and knowledgeable. He makes me realise that dealing with life and love and loss becomes no easier with age.
I love that strange feeling you get when you calmly and absentmindedly people watch in public places; half asleep, half awake, half daydreaming, and afterwards you can’t help but feel like you’ve taken a little piece of them home with you.
For that short period of time their worries become your worries, their happiness becomes your happiness, and their life becomes more fascinating, heartbreaking and intriguing than anything else you could ever imagine.
I see an old man pick up a newspaper and notice that the creases in the pages mirror the ones etched on his forehead, and I wonder what could bother a man so old and wise and knowledgeable. He makes me realise that dealing with life and love and loss becomes no easier with age.
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