I will play the swan, and die in music.
I will play the swan, and die in music.
non-challenge.
I will play the swan,
And die in music:-
Willow, willow, willow.
Othello, Act VI, Scene II
I listen to songs that shouldn't remind me of you. They should remind me of summer and sun, of mischief and laughter and joy. They should remind me of running running running through the rain with no destination in mind, just the sense of lightness and freedom that fills my body.
I listen to songs with words I don't know in languages I don't speak, so there's nothing to spark a memory.
But in the back of my mind I always know that I'm listening to them because of you.
I close my eyes and try to block out everything but the music.
-
I stare determinedly at the images flashing on the screen as we sit in the dark. I try not to feel the currents that jump across the space between our shoulders.
You lean in to whisper something in my ear, some dry remark, but I can't pay attention to the words. All I can hear is the low vibration of your voice, sinking down through my skin and blood, seeping into my bones.
-
I listen to hard, heavy music. I pick the most chaotic, most violent, most discordant stuff I can find, and I turn it up so loud that the person sitting next to me on the train winces.
I dive headfirst into this storm-tossed ocean of bass and drums and screams and noise in an attempt to drown you out.
But I can only hold my breath for so long, and when I surface, gasping for air, you're there with a bemused little smile on your face.
I hear your voice, sending little earthquakes through me, laughing softly.
"Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?"
-
I listen to soft, sweet music. I play the slow and soothing tracks in hopes they'll lull you into sleep, and I can escape from under your watchful gaze.
Instead, the melodies cover me like dryer-warmed sheets and send me spiraling into oblivion.
When I wake up, you're still there, staring down at me with indulgent affection.
I can still hear you.
"Did you dream of me?"
Always.
-
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sounds. I open myself up fully and try absorb them into myself.
I want every tune, every voice, every beat to resonate inside me and push unwelcome thoughts out.
Sometimes they'll get close. They'll sink through my skin, burrow through muscle, and thrum through sinew. But there's always something blocking them, preventing any further penetration.
Something already rests in my marrow, soft but strong.
Your voice, low and euphonic, refuses to relinquish it's position.
The more I try, the more it laughs, saying the words that I once longed to hear.
Even now, when I'd do anything to block them out, they're still beautiful.
"I'll never leave you."
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
The Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene I
non-challenge.
I will play the swan,
And die in music:-
Willow, willow, willow.
Othello, Act VI, Scene II
I listen to songs that shouldn't remind me of you. They should remind me of summer and sun, of mischief and laughter and joy. They should remind me of running running running through the rain with no destination in mind, just the sense of lightness and freedom that fills my body.
I listen to songs with words I don't know in languages I don't speak, so there's nothing to spark a memory.
But in the back of my mind I always know that I'm listening to them because of you.
I close my eyes and try to block out everything but the music.
-
I stare determinedly at the images flashing on the screen as we sit in the dark. I try not to feel the currents that jump across the space between our shoulders.
You lean in to whisper something in my ear, some dry remark, but I can't pay attention to the words. All I can hear is the low vibration of your voice, sinking down through my skin and blood, seeping into my bones.
-
I listen to hard, heavy music. I pick the most chaotic, most violent, most discordant stuff I can find, and I turn it up so loud that the person sitting next to me on the train winces.
I dive headfirst into this storm-tossed ocean of bass and drums and screams and noise in an attempt to drown you out.
But I can only hold my breath for so long, and when I surface, gasping for air, you're there with a bemused little smile on your face.
I hear your voice, sending little earthquakes through me, laughing softly.
"Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?"
-
I listen to soft, sweet music. I play the slow and soothing tracks in hopes they'll lull you into sleep, and I can escape from under your watchful gaze.
Instead, the melodies cover me like dryer-warmed sheets and send me spiraling into oblivion.
When I wake up, you're still there, staring down at me with indulgent affection.
I can still hear you.
"Did you dream of me?"
Always.
-
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sounds. I open myself up fully and try absorb them into myself.
I want every tune, every voice, every beat to resonate inside me and push unwelcome thoughts out.
Sometimes they'll get close. They'll sink through my skin, burrow through muscle, and thrum through sinew. But there's always something blocking them, preventing any further penetration.
Something already rests in my marrow, soft but strong.
Your voice, low and euphonic, refuses to relinquish it's position.
The more I try, the more it laughs, saying the words that I once longed to hear.
Even now, when I'd do anything to block them out, they're still beautiful.
"I'll never leave you."
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
The Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene I