Burn the Blue Eyes
How could such a simple song played by two girls with just a harp, a kazoo and a children's toy sound so effortlessly amazing. The words are barely comprehensible. The lyrics are absolutely bizarre. The music screams of melancholy. Their almost-falsetto, raspy voice weave such carefree yet superbly serene Daedalian sounds.
When you throw all of those eclectic mixture of seemingly unconventional nonsensical elements together...
How could it not leave you completely dumbstruck with unutterable emotions.
How could it not stir whirlpools of blood, rushing through your tired veins.
How could it not raise your hair like thorns on a rose.
How could it not silent your inner turmoils.
How could it not titillate your fragile spine.
How could it not move you to paradise,
even for a fleeting moment.
How could it not tie your heartstrings together in such convoluted beauty,
in the most captivating manner possible.
But...
Isn't it odd that someone could feel so much pain and anguish over something so profoundly beautiful. That he would listen to the very song that would literally choke him with invisible tears. His heart cries blood, imagining what might have been, what have transpired, and the frightening thought of an uncertain future.
With trembling fingers, he types these all too familiar words of misery. Trying so hard to let out those trapped emotions onto this superficial public space for the world to witness, with hopes that expressing in complete honest nakedness that these cries could somehow miraculously silent his dysphoria. He tries, and tries, and tries, to find solace in this song that inflames bittersweet memories of her. The lovely melody of the harp, those almost-falsetto raspy voice, plays on repeat for what seems like an eternity.
And eternity it is, because in life some wounds just refuse to heal. Our tangible skin would wither away to ashes, but the intangible pain remains. Completely defiant against time, it remains. As it is yesterday, as it is now, as it is tomorrow, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.
With trembling fingers, he types these ever so familiar words of misery. Because misery is a butterfly. He tries, so hard, to convince himself that within this wretched cocoon that something better might blossom in time to come. It's dreary outside, but come tomorrow the sun will slowly but surely chase away the darkness. Maybe it will be a pleasant morning, with a slight cool drizzle of sweet acid rain, and maybe after which a rainbow might appear and colour the sky pastel.
With trembling fingers, he types these foolish words, and tries to not black out again and in process burn the cigarette on his fingers, yet again. We do foolish things in the name of love. But we do even more stupendously foolish nonsense in the name of sorrow. Being stupid for the sake of being stupid is stupid enough. But being stupid because of someone else would render the word 'stupid' completely inane, because a word for such profound stupidity doesn't even exist in the dictionary.
With trembling fingers, he types, "I am such a fool".
