In the Arms of an Angel...
Comfort...
REAL Comfort I get outta only two things.
Music... Nothin' comforts me better than music. In the world I came from, after I lost someone more precious t'me than my own spark... a lot of folks tried t' comfort me. None of them could. Not really. The only thing I could find comfort in was music. The melodies and harmonies, rhythms and sometimes the lyrics - they were the arms that held me when the only way I could sleep was to cry myself into recharge.
The comfort was in the rise and fall of piano chords, a violin and flute counter-actin' each other and bein' in harmony at the same time, a soft percussion like a heartbeat, a lilt of a gentle voice. It was rarely about the spoken words. There are are unspoken words and feelin's in music that can offer more comfort than cold words. Without the music, there was nothin' stoppin' me from puttin' a gun t'my spark and followin' him t'the Matrix.
Music can shred your spark to tiny pieces and then put it back together again. It can tear your soul out and then wrap ya up in a warmth so nice that y'think for a little while that things can get better. Bein' able to feel the music at least told me I was still alive, and I hadn't completely become some poor wretch of a husk.
*he stops and takes a deep breath*
My other comfort? Prowl.
He's all the comfort I need. When I'm in his arms, heck, when I'm in his presence, the world just seems like a so much better place. Prowl's like... the physical embodiment of music t'me. Bein' in his arms is like bein' wrapped in a harmony - two independent melodies comin' together to hold up the fragile treble that'd be so completely shallow without the depth and strength of the harmony.
His voice, when he speaks, IS a melody. Y'may say I'm gushin' 'cause I'm in love with the mech, but next time he speaks, just listen. It falls and lowers when he's tryin' to be empathetic and understandin', and rises when he's tryin' t'be supportive and encouragin'. It does what a melody's supposed t'do - it moves ya. And the percussion... if you've ever heard the mech's spark pulse when he's passionate about somethin'... Y'can hear it in your own heartbeat.
That's my comfort... the music and the mech who embodies it...
((OOC: eh hehe... sorry, Jazz seems to like to bare his soul with these prompts... he's probably sitting outside the autobot medbay somewhere resting his leg before the party, so if anyone needs/wants to talk to him, there he is.))
REAL Comfort I get outta only two things.
Music... Nothin' comforts me better than music. In the world I came from, after I lost someone more precious t'me than my own spark... a lot of folks tried t' comfort me. None of them could. Not really. The only thing I could find comfort in was music. The melodies and harmonies, rhythms and sometimes the lyrics - they were the arms that held me when the only way I could sleep was to cry myself into recharge.
The comfort was in the rise and fall of piano chords, a violin and flute counter-actin' each other and bein' in harmony at the same time, a soft percussion like a heartbeat, a lilt of a gentle voice. It was rarely about the spoken words. There are are unspoken words and feelin's in music that can offer more comfort than cold words. Without the music, there was nothin' stoppin' me from puttin' a gun t'my spark and followin' him t'the Matrix.
Music can shred your spark to tiny pieces and then put it back together again. It can tear your soul out and then wrap ya up in a warmth so nice that y'think for a little while that things can get better. Bein' able to feel the music at least told me I was still alive, and I hadn't completely become some poor wretch of a husk.
*he stops and takes a deep breath*
My other comfort? Prowl.
He's all the comfort I need. When I'm in his arms, heck, when I'm in his presence, the world just seems like a so much better place. Prowl's like... the physical embodiment of music t'me. Bein' in his arms is like bein' wrapped in a harmony - two independent melodies comin' together to hold up the fragile treble that'd be so completely shallow without the depth and strength of the harmony.
His voice, when he speaks, IS a melody. Y'may say I'm gushin' 'cause I'm in love with the mech, but next time he speaks, just listen. It falls and lowers when he's tryin' to be empathetic and understandin', and rises when he's tryin' t'be supportive and encouragin'. It does what a melody's supposed t'do - it moves ya. And the percussion... if you've ever heard the mech's spark pulse when he's passionate about somethin'... Y'can hear it in your own heartbeat.
That's my comfort... the music and the mech who embodies it...
((OOC: eh hehe... sorry, Jazz seems to like to bare his soul with these prompts... he's probably sitting outside the autobot medbay somewhere resting his leg before the party, so if anyone needs/wants to talk to him, there he is.))