eleven: theyallleftandtheyallcried
it's not so hard to think of the place where all inspiration comes from..
a few notes strummed on an acoustic bass to the accompaniment of a guitar and a voice that could move angels to tears..sometimes the words don't even matter, because if they are written for the music, then it's only the music that counts, the music that is doing all the work. the voice is just a medium, or better, a catalyst..
all it takes is a mental picture of what it's like out there on a gloomy day in North-Rhine Westphalia..somewhere between Bonn and Cologne in plain bleary landscapes where a 16yearold ragamuffin found an everlasting story he liked to call love. a story which would turn out to be everlasting, but not really love..at least not like anyone could ever have imagined..
the smell and the taste of earlymorning freshly-ground italian coffee..while your eyes get accustomed to the pre-dawn dark, and the heavy boots walking around the deck of a fishing boat you spent the last 14nights upon in the hope of getting as far away from routine as possible. and in the end all it brought you to was a new home, but it was the same one you had left..
i thought i had left that place, but luckily it had never left me..and the postcards it sent me which i ignored for a while, found their own way to the surface of mass confusion, and whispered scenes into my head of beauty so abstract that it could only be real..
i may not be standing at the railway station on the Brocken at almost 4000feet in a warm 10degrees but as long as my spirit soars up there, my feet will barely notice the ground i walk upon..
a few notes strummed on an acoustic bass to the accompaniment of a guitar and a voice that could move angels to tears..sometimes the words don't even matter, because if they are written for the music, then it's only the music that counts, the music that is doing all the work. the voice is just a medium, or better, a catalyst..
all it takes is a mental picture of what it's like out there on a gloomy day in North-Rhine Westphalia..somewhere between Bonn and Cologne in plain bleary landscapes where a 16yearold ragamuffin found an everlasting story he liked to call love. a story which would turn out to be everlasting, but not really love..at least not like anyone could ever have imagined..
the smell and the taste of earlymorning freshly-ground italian coffee..while your eyes get accustomed to the pre-dawn dark, and the heavy boots walking around the deck of a fishing boat you spent the last 14nights upon in the hope of getting as far away from routine as possible. and in the end all it brought you to was a new home, but it was the same one you had left..
i thought i had left that place, but luckily it had never left me..and the postcards it sent me which i ignored for a while, found their own way to the surface of mass confusion, and whispered scenes into my head of beauty so abstract that it could only be real..
i may not be standing at the railway station on the Brocken at almost 4000feet in a warm 10degrees but as long as my spirit soars up there, my feet will barely notice the ground i walk upon..