Ad 2:
2021-03-05 16:01:41 (UTC)

A Sea of Green

"I'm wasting your time, just talking to you
"Maybe best you go on home
"I'll leave you alone, fade from your mind
"Slip into the greens and blues"

"Greens and Blues"

I can tell you the exact location in which I heard this song for the tenth time, only to feel like I was really listening to it for the first time. My dog and I had been going back into town, on our way home, when this song came on, just after we passed the sweets shop. When I went home and listened to it yet again, I couldn't help but think of J. On the whole, I'd say every Pixies song immediately boosts J into mind, predominantly because it's thanks to him that I actively started listening to them more. I knew of them, had a song I liked by them, but it was after talking to him that I started paying more attention. This one was different though. It was the very lines that implied a stranger trying to remove himself from someone else's mind that tugged at my heart. It was a dead reminder to how J kept disappearing, slipping in and out of my inbox, leaving a remnant of a presence. Like a ghost.

My talent doesn't lie in music but with images and words, so my appreciation of music, though it does include a natural attraction to melody and beautiful sounds of instruments, relies on the lyrics, lyrics that could deliver the final blow sometimes. For the longest time, I relied on songs to express how I felt because someone else got to the right words first. I reckon it's a natural inclination for most, otherwise why do we send each other songs or write down our favourite lyrics if they don't help us express ourselves? Then there's a shift, a shift in which I realise that part of growing up is not needing songs to tell others how you feel. Instead, I learned to develop my own words, and my selection of songs became more about looking for whatever resembles a story, or poetry.

Still, I falter. And sometimes, rather than listening to a song that could emulate something I might say, I listen to a song that manifests what could be said to me. It's a fruitless thought process, of course. It's only another attempt to communicate or the other dangerous activity of rationalisation. I'm trying to avoid writing it but truthfully, I imagined J as this person, telling me I'm better off not listening to him and just going home, despite my will to stay. It doesn't escape me that I seemed so meek before, a stick-figure of a personality that seems to sway at every light breeze. Maybe in some way I was told off for my own protection. It's something I'm desperately trying to rectify now. Again, this is all in my head, but I can't help but wonder. I'm well aware these are things I imagine, for reasons that are becoming ever clearer to me. I'm able to take a more objective and less emotional stance when I have these musings, at least. Bit by bit, it all becomes clear to the point where I'm fine with it and find myself writing about it.

There was a retreat to myself then, and I found myself sitting in my mental space, my grey room, looking out the window to see Anna sitting on a bench in the garden. She seemed frail and sad, despite the frown of concentration on her face, one that indicated she was thinking about something really hard. I looked at her and saw the embodiment of untapped potential. It doesn't come as a surprise to me why despite all of my new ideas, I'm resisting myself because I know her story has to be the first to be written, because she is the first, the beginning, the firstborn. Aside from the embedded tragedy in her story, Anna represents that period in my life of minimal self-confidence and the need for an older sibling type figure. She's the artist before the art, the writer still in the making before that first manuscript.

I suppose a conclusion is in order. Sadly, I don't have a proper one, because this very entry has been a pain to write. Not only is my writing muscle untrained, but it's become difficult to be open again. Nothing to do but suffer through it, whatever the reason.