An Unforgettable Night

Perhaps what makes it beautiful is the discovery of your own deep emotions in his words, and perhaps it is the way that nothing can crush you after this valuable find: after the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, some other being knows your exact feelings, even without the feeble attempts of your own frivolous words. For while my words crudely attempt to define the shadows of reality, his beautiful melodies bring light and rationality into a raw and indefinable world. And this realization stops time, pauses and holds tight to that pure emotion... and it is this brutal, raw honesty that allows no excuses, no other words.

Before my departure, a friend mentioned that the beauty of a concert is the power it has to remove you from reality; and yet, during the concert I found myself further grounded in my memories, tied even tighter to the times in my life that the same lyric pulled me through, that it had given me the strength to move on in times when movement seemed so futile. For a lyric in itself is nothing but a line of words; but the emotion behind it, the memories and the tantalizing, undefinable hopes it brings to the surface... therein lies the power, therein the beauty and the strength.

And when the music is done and all has become silent, his haunting melodies hang in the air; mere echoes that seem to reverberate in the rafters of my mind.

Feathers in the Wind

Every once in awhile, one simple thing will magnify itself: time will stop and all that matters is the tiny grains, the delicate patterns that define the intricate design of this one simple thing. The simple rhythms that define the moment; whether that be the frail skeleton of a whisper or a loud definite ringing, sure and strong. And at these moments my breath catches in my throat and I can hardly bear to stand so openly face to face with this mystery: the rigid lines of the world around me begin to blur and fade away, and nothing matters but my awe for the beautiful intricacy of something so incredibly simple.

Time loves to play tricks on me, to lull me into a false sense of security before shocking me into reality, pushing and pulling my poor self in a million directions until I can hardly bear it any longer: and after a series of explosions, I find myself dazed and confused, chasing down the tiny pieces that escaped. Yet the pieces stray as feathers in a wind; circling in cruel- humored and vicious cycles around my head, tempting and deceiving. When I find myself lucky enough to have caught a piece, I hold on far too tightly, fearing to let go, lest I lose it once more. For the beauty of a feather in hand is far more cherished than that of a million others floating in the wind, impossibly out of reach.

And all my time seems to be spent searching for the one simple thing that isolates me from the complex world around me, something for which I can honestly proclaim: nothing else matters.