It's dark and gray... and I need it.
I need it now and
I need it bad.
I need it to bring back the color,
if only for three minutes.
Life: Dark and dirty.
Its a crime to want it.
A sin to so indulge.
An urge impossible to ignore.
No matter how long you wait,
it will never go away
Your need will only grow stronger
Fill it. Fulfill it. Surrender.
Sacrifice your soul to the pained strains of another and watch as your heart takes flight,
your mind aroused
Let it take control.
Let it take you away.
Abuse.
That's what this is.
Abuse of it.
Abuse of you.
Every time you push play
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Un Poème de l’Amour et la Vie
Ensemble, nous avons volé.
Ensemble, la vie était bonne.
Mais, maintenant, les bons moments
sont partis.
Ma vie est sombre
Comme les étoiles qui sont mortes,
a cause de toi.
Parce-que tu es parti.
Tous tes mots
Sont des double-étendres.
Ton sourire comme un poignard dans mon cœur
Mais, le ciel est plein d’espérer,
Plein de couleurs et de lumière
Bleu et rose et le soleil doré
Les nuages racontent des possibilités d’avenir
Et quand le soleil se levé encore,
Je vais voler seule.
Ensemble, la vie était bonne.
Mais, maintenant, les bons moments
sont partis.
Ma vie est sombre
Comme les étoiles qui sont mortes,
a cause de toi.
Parce-que tu es parti.
Tous tes mots
Sont des double-étendres.
Ton sourire comme un poignard dans mon cœur
Mais, le ciel est plein d’espérer,
Plein de couleurs et de lumière
Bleu et rose et le soleil doré
Les nuages racontent des possibilités d’avenir
Et quand le soleil se levé encore,
Je vais voler seule.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Make Believe...
It's been another day, another just like the rest. School, work, church. Whatever happened today, it doesn't really matter because it's over. She's that much closer.
She flips off the switch, the light from her lamp and in her eyes disappearing in the same instant. She no longer has to pretend. It's late, past bedtime and she crawls under the quilt. Ear buds in, she closes her eyes, and the ritual begins. Slowly, the longing strains of an organ seep into her mind and she begins a mental inventory of her day. Her week. Her life. Every night she does this. Because every day she wakes up, smears on the makeup and the positive attitude in one swipe. It's not that she’s ugly, it's that she is too stressed to remember her beauty. It's not that she's negative; it's that she is too weighed down to be light hearted. It's not that she isn't happy; it's that she is too busy to feel happiness. But they don't know.
They know she is busy, sure, but do they know what its doing to her? The real her. No, because every morning she carefully applies the her they want to see. The version of her that is on top of her studies, never shares a cross word and will come to the rescue at any moment for the sake of another. They don't know that she studies life from the bottom, that her words are only cross when they are to herself, and that what she really needs to someone to rescue her. Someone to simply care about how she really feels.
Someday there will be someone. But she doesn't need anyone right now. Just her music. And late at night, with her blinds shut to the possibility of the stars beyond, she escapes into her music and the world in which she will one day live. A world where she can be herself, the beautiful girl she knows she is. Where she can think things and say things without fear of being labeled, tossed into the section of "rebellious teenagers" where adults keep those they'd rather ignore. Someday she will wake up and skip the mascara, grab her favorite shirt and rock her natural hair. Someday she will travel afar and introduce herself to total strangers, because no one will care who she associates with. She will sleep in, because the freedom to declare the value of her health over the importance of a meeting will be at last attained.
But until then. Her music will lull her into a painful sleep, a brief and horrible escape where she will dream of the nightmarish world in which she poses at the top. And in just a few short hours, still in the dark of the morning, she will wake up to the innocent blaring of her old alarm clock and apologize to it. It's not its fault she doesn’t like to get up.
She will walk to the mirror in the dark and carefully apply the girl people expect, masking the one she loves.
But it's O.K.
Because she is one day closer to the end of this game of make believe.
-- "Fix You", Coldplay
She flips off the switch, the light from her lamp and in her eyes disappearing in the same instant. She no longer has to pretend. It's late, past bedtime and she crawls under the quilt. Ear buds in, she closes her eyes, and the ritual begins. Slowly, the longing strains of an organ seep into her mind and she begins a mental inventory of her day. Her week. Her life. Every night she does this. Because every day she wakes up, smears on the makeup and the positive attitude in one swipe. It's not that she’s ugly, it's that she is too stressed to remember her beauty. It's not that she's negative; it's that she is too weighed down to be light hearted. It's not that she isn't happy; it's that she is too busy to feel happiness. But they don't know.
They know she is busy, sure, but do they know what its doing to her? The real her. No, because every morning she carefully applies the her they want to see. The version of her that is on top of her studies, never shares a cross word and will come to the rescue at any moment for the sake of another. They don't know that she studies life from the bottom, that her words are only cross when they are to herself, and that what she really needs to someone to rescue her. Someone to simply care about how she really feels.
Someday there will be someone. But she doesn't need anyone right now. Just her music. And late at night, with her blinds shut to the possibility of the stars beyond, she escapes into her music and the world in which she will one day live. A world where she can be herself, the beautiful girl she knows she is. Where she can think things and say things without fear of being labeled, tossed into the section of "rebellious teenagers" where adults keep those they'd rather ignore. Someday she will wake up and skip the mascara, grab her favorite shirt and rock her natural hair. Someday she will travel afar and introduce herself to total strangers, because no one will care who she associates with. She will sleep in, because the freedom to declare the value of her health over the importance of a meeting will be at last attained.
But until then. Her music will lull her into a painful sleep, a brief and horrible escape where she will dream of the nightmarish world in which she poses at the top. And in just a few short hours, still in the dark of the morning, she will wake up to the innocent blaring of her old alarm clock and apologize to it. It's not its fault she doesn’t like to get up.
She will walk to the mirror in the dark and carefully apply the girl people expect, masking the one she loves.
But it's O.K.
Because she is one day closer to the end of this game of make believe.
-- "Fix You", Coldplay
Sunday, January 1, 2012
A PASSION TO DIE FOR...
They say that passion is permanent. That once you fall in love with something, it is part of your life forever.
No matter how hard you try to remove it.
She always loved the violin, ever since she was very young-- she had spent hours every day in front of a black music stand. In college she would stay up all night long, practicing in the basement of her dorm. There among the rumbling of the machines and hissing and moaning of the old pipes, she would pour out the grievings and aspirations of her soul through the strings of that violin. Her dreams would fly out of the rosin dust, dancing in the air with her broad strokes before settling all around her like pixie dust. Tears and fears would resonate on the concrete walls with every harsh chord, love and passion penetrating each melody she endeavored to perfect. She lived for the music; she lived through the music, and the music through her.
She spent her days playing for celebrations, events and concerts. She spent her nights in lonely rooms away from the world, breathing in the music, recharging her soul.
One day she was driving through the woods on her way to a wedding for which she had been hired. She happened to glance to her left as she passed a clump of trees when she first saw it. Perched on the edge of the pavement was a black music stand with a piece of music opened on it. She drove on, looking behind her at the empty road.
A few months later, as she walked down the steps of a large concert hall to her car, she saw it again. The black music stand with music opened to the second page, standing on the landing. Just there. She approached the stand and turned to the front page, at once recognizing the famous czardas. As she stood there, the music turned back to the second page as if by the wind, but the air in the hall was still. She walked to her car and drove home, only to stay awake in her room, playing hours more.
One evening she pulled out of a yellowed folder a piece of music. The famed Monti Czardas that seemed to be following her. She played into the early hours of the morning, setting down her beloved instrument just as the sun was rising. An accomplished musician, she had been able to make great strides on it just that night. It was nearly ready for an audience. Except for one part on the second page.
Again and again she played the czardas, determined to perfect it. That measure in the middle of the third line on the second page. That was the trouble. It was not a difficult section, in fact she had seen many less talented musicians play it perfectly before. Why was it giving her such trouble?
Weeks had passed since she began her study and attempt of the infamous czardas when she saw it again. This time on her porch. A black music stand, with the czardas opened to the second page. Standing defiantly in the windy afternoon sun on her front porch. The street was empty. Deciding to make use of it, she studied the music to see if there was a hint on it for her, a fingering penciled in or something. Although obviously worn, it was in crisp perfection. Frustrated she unlocked her door and went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
That was the first night in months she didn't play the czardas, instead going to bed early. But it did not stay away. No, she dreamed of the czardas, imagining that she played the broken measure over and over again. Each time she played it, the scenery was different. Sometimes inside a crowded concert hall. Sometimes in a blustery park. Once in the basement of her old college dorm. Once in the woods where she once saw it. Never done perfectly. Each time the mistake was louder, more obvious, more painful. She awoke in a cold sweat, listening to the stark silence of her room. She did not sleep well the rest of the night.
The next day, she put her violin in her car and drove away, far away to the coast. She would stay in a cottage on the bluff. A welcome respite from the dark city life. She did not take her music with her, but would play only what her soul desired.
She started off with a lovely concerto, a melodic piece of beauty. But she could not stay away, and in the fading light of sunset, her melodic strains transformed into the painful chords of the wrenching czardas. Always stopping right before the measure of repeated failures. She tried to start at the next line and finish the piece, but she could not do it. Frustrated and angry, she slammed her violin into its case and drove home, arriving very early the next morning.
She slept through the day, waking only for a cup of tea in the evening. Holding her steaming cup, she walked to the front window, gazing upon the red and golden leaves of deep fall rustling in the wind. She closed her eyes, breathing deep in the tortuous scent of her tea, the fall air, and the rosin that seemed to seep into everything she owned. When she opened her eyes, it was there. In her living room. The black music stand, opened to the second page of the czardas. She dropped her tea, the cup rolling to a wet stop a few feet away. In fury, she tore the music off the stand and ripped the page in two, thrusting the stand to the ground as she stormed off into her room. She opened her violin, and played the czardas. When she once again destroyed that measure, she stopped. She set her instrument on the bed and reached for her music. Placing it back into its aging folder, she pulled on a scarf and walked to her front door, hardly noticing the empty living room. She walked briskly down the street and deposited the music in the hands of a happy child sitting on a park bench. She did not return to her apartment that night.
The next morning, she gathered her violin again and began to play. She played everything but the czardas. She played with such a level of passion that the very trees outside seemed to dance with her music. But she was not satisfied. She went to bed upset. That night, she awoke to use the restroom and found the music stand behind the curtain in her bathtub. She slammed the door and stormed back to her room. Finding the room empty she sighed and fell to the bed, praying for dreams of peace.
Instead she dreamed of nothing. Nothing but blackness and the czardas playing over and over in her mind, louder and louder. Always with an imperfect measure from the second page. She again awoke in a cold sweat, her hands clammy, her breathing fast and shallow. She rolled over to look at the ceiling, afraid of what she would find in her room if she looked. Unable to hold out any longer, she closed her eyes and sat up, her feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
There, in her dark room in the early morning on a November day, was a black music stand with the Monti Czardas opened to the second page. Not breathing, she stared at the pages. In the middle of the third line on the second page was a gap. A white space. A missing measure. It was gone.
Breathing deeply, she forced her eyes shut and threw herself into her mattress. Down and down she fell, the moonlight streaming through her window growing smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist. At the end of her tunnel was only one thing. A small sound, a violin. It played for just one moment. It played a measure from the middle of the third line on the second page of the Monti Czardas.
Ever one with the music, her heart stopped just as the bow left the string. Perfect notes resounded in the emptiness, but she was not there to hear them.
Whatever your passions, beware. Passions are something to die for.
No matter how hard you try to remove it.
She always loved the violin, ever since she was very young-- she had spent hours every day in front of a black music stand. In college she would stay up all night long, practicing in the basement of her dorm. There among the rumbling of the machines and hissing and moaning of the old pipes, she would pour out the grievings and aspirations of her soul through the strings of that violin. Her dreams would fly out of the rosin dust, dancing in the air with her broad strokes before settling all around her like pixie dust. Tears and fears would resonate on the concrete walls with every harsh chord, love and passion penetrating each melody she endeavored to perfect. She lived for the music; she lived through the music, and the music through her.
She spent her days playing for celebrations, events and concerts. She spent her nights in lonely rooms away from the world, breathing in the music, recharging her soul.
One day she was driving through the woods on her way to a wedding for which she had been hired. She happened to glance to her left as she passed a clump of trees when she first saw it. Perched on the edge of the pavement was a black music stand with a piece of music opened on it. She drove on, looking behind her at the empty road.
A few months later, as she walked down the steps of a large concert hall to her car, she saw it again. The black music stand with music opened to the second page, standing on the landing. Just there. She approached the stand and turned to the front page, at once recognizing the famous czardas. As she stood there, the music turned back to the second page as if by the wind, but the air in the hall was still. She walked to her car and drove home, only to stay awake in her room, playing hours more.
One evening she pulled out of a yellowed folder a piece of music. The famed Monti Czardas that seemed to be following her. She played into the early hours of the morning, setting down her beloved instrument just as the sun was rising. An accomplished musician, she had been able to make great strides on it just that night. It was nearly ready for an audience. Except for one part on the second page.
Again and again she played the czardas, determined to perfect it. That measure in the middle of the third line on the second page. That was the trouble. It was not a difficult section, in fact she had seen many less talented musicians play it perfectly before. Why was it giving her such trouble?
Weeks had passed since she began her study and attempt of the infamous czardas when she saw it again. This time on her porch. A black music stand, with the czardas opened to the second page. Standing defiantly in the windy afternoon sun on her front porch. The street was empty. Deciding to make use of it, she studied the music to see if there was a hint on it for her, a fingering penciled in or something. Although obviously worn, it was in crisp perfection. Frustrated she unlocked her door and went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
That was the first night in months she didn't play the czardas, instead going to bed early. But it did not stay away. No, she dreamed of the czardas, imagining that she played the broken measure over and over again. Each time she played it, the scenery was different. Sometimes inside a crowded concert hall. Sometimes in a blustery park. Once in the basement of her old college dorm. Once in the woods where she once saw it. Never done perfectly. Each time the mistake was louder, more obvious, more painful. She awoke in a cold sweat, listening to the stark silence of her room. She did not sleep well the rest of the night.
The next day, she put her violin in her car and drove away, far away to the coast. She would stay in a cottage on the bluff. A welcome respite from the dark city life. She did not take her music with her, but would play only what her soul desired.
She started off with a lovely concerto, a melodic piece of beauty. But she could not stay away, and in the fading light of sunset, her melodic strains transformed into the painful chords of the wrenching czardas. Always stopping right before the measure of repeated failures. She tried to start at the next line and finish the piece, but she could not do it. Frustrated and angry, she slammed her violin into its case and drove home, arriving very early the next morning.
She slept through the day, waking only for a cup of tea in the evening. Holding her steaming cup, she walked to the front window, gazing upon the red and golden leaves of deep fall rustling in the wind. She closed her eyes, breathing deep in the tortuous scent of her tea, the fall air, and the rosin that seemed to seep into everything she owned. When she opened her eyes, it was there. In her living room. The black music stand, opened to the second page of the czardas. She dropped her tea, the cup rolling to a wet stop a few feet away. In fury, she tore the music off the stand and ripped the page in two, thrusting the stand to the ground as she stormed off into her room. She opened her violin, and played the czardas. When she once again destroyed that measure, she stopped. She set her instrument on the bed and reached for her music. Placing it back into its aging folder, she pulled on a scarf and walked to her front door, hardly noticing the empty living room. She walked briskly down the street and deposited the music in the hands of a happy child sitting on a park bench. She did not return to her apartment that night.
The next morning, she gathered her violin again and began to play. She played everything but the czardas. She played with such a level of passion that the very trees outside seemed to dance with her music. But she was not satisfied. She went to bed upset. That night, she awoke to use the restroom and found the music stand behind the curtain in her bathtub. She slammed the door and stormed back to her room. Finding the room empty she sighed and fell to the bed, praying for dreams of peace.
Instead she dreamed of nothing. Nothing but blackness and the czardas playing over and over in her mind, louder and louder. Always with an imperfect measure from the second page. She again awoke in a cold sweat, her hands clammy, her breathing fast and shallow. She rolled over to look at the ceiling, afraid of what she would find in her room if she looked. Unable to hold out any longer, she closed her eyes and sat up, her feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
There, in her dark room in the early morning on a November day, was a black music stand with the Monti Czardas opened to the second page. Not breathing, she stared at the pages. In the middle of the third line on the second page was a gap. A white space. A missing measure. It was gone.
Breathing deeply, she forced her eyes shut and threw herself into her mattress. Down and down she fell, the moonlight streaming through her window growing smaller and smaller until it ceased to exist. At the end of her tunnel was only one thing. A small sound, a violin. It played for just one moment. It played a measure from the middle of the third line on the second page of the Monti Czardas.
Ever one with the music, her heart stopped just as the bow left the string. Perfect notes resounded in the emptiness, but she was not there to hear them.
Whatever your passions, beware. Passions are something to die for.
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