Music

I feel like listening to music. Nothing else. Almost...

If there were a sky above me, I could sit on my back onto soft grass, with my head resting heavy with thoughts in my palms. I would feel the slight tickle of green blades against my skin, the kiss of wind gentle as a lover to the earth and terrible up there, between the clouds. I would hear the rustle of leaves like a memento meant to ground me back to reality between the songs. If I were to open my eyes, I would see fantastic shapes; beings of magic cast forth from an arcane dimension that only show themselves between two gusts or blinks of the sun.

If there were a road beneath my feet, I would lie down, rain everywhere. I would see people running away under large roofs, under impassive trees or inside closed doors. Some would brave the storm and open their umbrellas in a supreme act of defiance against the heavens above. A smile would sneak on my lips as a burst carried the unholy device several feet away or turned it onto itself in a coincidental mockery of its earthly nature. I would feel the warm drops tapping against my face and onto my open palms. My mouth would receive the gift of water on an almost unconscious impulse on my part – one should try being close to the rain short of bursting in a splash of water himself. Thus enveloped in mercurial crystals, coated in what could be tears but today smile, surrounded by tapper not knowing thirst or cold, I would lie against the pavement lest fade off into trickles and music.
If there were a fire in my room, I would look through the window with the eyes of a child. What was but black and gray now shines anew – for what is winter if not a season of contrasts? It rips away the last vestiges of my lost summer from the helpless trees, it hides the sun away behind evil clouds that cannot be but glacial, it thrusts upon me hideous, wretched depression and frigid air making even the air I breathe in bite at my lungs. Then, when all that was good and decent seems lost forever, I wake up to a world of diamonds where there is no darkness, but darkness to bring out the light and where there is no night, for not even night can creep upon such glamorous moonlight. And, should I manage to get a special lady threading by my side in the snow, only in the snow and under the chilly gaze of winter could I bestow upon her all the jewellery her small hand could hold. Still, much as the unattainable beauty of a night sky covered in stars, these cold gems are soon claimed again by their only true mistress. And me, behind glass, with the orange of the fire dancing across my face on one side and the touch of moonlight on the other, I would sit there, looking at the spectacle of a winter night. Another glass in my hand would slowly dip my lips in its ruby store between forgotten thoughts, overlapping dreams and music.

If there were a sunrise before my eyes, a moment hanging in time, a red disc hanging in the sea. Surely there has never been, nor ever will there be a painter of such skill as that red disc. He picks up his brushes every morning and again, every evening. He places a canvas in the largest gallery of all. In the beginning of day he teases. He shows the world chimerical beauty, surreal colours. He lays across the ocean a trembling cone of gold. Then he pours all those reds, oranges, yellows and purples into the water. Many a mortals have tried to reach that empyrean cone of gold where magic spills into the world, and many a fish. Who is to say if anyone succeeded, and if they did, they can’t be in our world anymore but in the heavens, sparkling as stars down upon the earth. At dusk it departs, maybe knowing, maybe not, that his warmest colours, his brightest hues, the subtle twists and details he left for us as a keepsake awaiting his return, will soon be soiled in black ink. But a sunrise is what I would see and thus, bathed in light, coated in music, I would stay, gazing lost, ever upwards. I would sit on a threshold of emotion, feeling the hearth just enough to water the eyes and tremble the lower lip.

If there were nothing else but a blue song, so sweet that nothing else would break through. It might make me tighten my jacket around me; it might make me arrange my scarf around my neck. Or maybe it would me slow my steps or even stop me in my tracks. It could be yet another song, maybe one that doesn’t bring a gray and cold day into mind, but one that summons shivers and tingles. And I would have to look at the sky, for that is what we do when we feel such greatness. I would smile. People passing by might wonder what has brought happiness to my face; each would give his own reply and go by. I would take another step. Maybe it would it be one of those songs that I just have to listen to and devour the lyrics? Such is the nature of it that one would be much weaker without the other. Brought together in a moment of genius, it became one, much like a perfect couple, and now every word is written in notes and each note is sung by a word. Finally, it could be one that takes whatever mood I’m into and melts it away. Each note would transmute a hidden chord inside, slowly bringing me to its natural state. And I would never wonder how it happened because I never noticed the change. A song can mean the world. Music can be the universe while my feet carry me diligently forward because they know the way home. Music can be the universe while my hands pick food off shelves because they know what I need to eat. And my pen knows what to write and my body what to exercise and my head when to nod when I see a familiar face.

Through it all though, having you by my side would make it so much more. Perfect.