There have been times when I have lionized music artists that I heard of, I revered their music as sacred passages from some holy scriptures, which were to be adhered, if not followed. Now music (both playing and listening) has taken a back seat, the sounds in the life keep ebbing away the “real music” further and further. And then, suddenly, the lights are on, the music is loud, just like in the movies, as if my life has automatically inherited the features from the movies—which cultures of the recent past are nothing without, or are they? Anyways, throughout this cold period, some people in the middle have moved me like moon moves the ocean waters; like young blood stirs youth, which leaves me with amazing sense of weakness and feeling of love—Norah Jones is the recipient of all my endless love, all my pure thoughts combines together, like a school kid, I am just sitting here, waiting for you, to Turn me on.
I wish I could touch your hair, look into your eyes, hug you, embrace you, and hide you in my chest; this world doesn’t know that I wear you instead of my vest. I wish I could hear the sound of your voice, I wish I could hear your cold heart to lend you my tears. I know you live in a multicolored life, and Grammy awards don’t matter any more to you, but I wish I could know ‘what can I be to you?’ I’ll come away with you, no matter it’s sunrise or sunset—I just have faith, I have been told by Eva Cassidy, that all I need is just faith, and I will be one of the black lines in the your checkered dress that you look so beautiful in, in my dreams all these days. I feel overpowered by the thoughts of you, and I have given up writing this about two times because my hands feel disconnected from my brain.
Practically, I don’t even know if I will meet you in this life, but the moment my heart murmurs “Norah”, I drift into another aura, which cannot imagine how a feeling of love could be. Your shimmering voice makes me deaf, and my lurching soul zigzag’s ever so more. If there was anything in this world I could wish before the sixth beer, it would be a sixth sense—that can feel your reality with mine—that can combine my unreal-but-smug thoughts with yours that are so serene. Oh Norah, but I have to be practical, because you’re world starts where mine ends, because you breathe and you can take away mine, because you are gold and I am just a mere smear, because ‘because’ can’t be used many times to express reasons beyond our control, god knows—because even he can’t see my love.
What kind of real love is this where I can’t even see you but in my eyes, I can’t feel you if not for your voice? I wish this was not another fandom that sees the light in the sun because it cannot see the moon.
My imagery is molded into emotion with every passing second, but I control, because I cannot learn to control, and my situation is getting further from an eccentric disposition to near-suicidal despair, right now, betwixt between my meaningless existence and the need for your “speed”. Love is mysterious cruelty that most of the human beings have to experience; I want life to at least allow you to be cruel to me, cruel to the extent that my intense inwardness can engulf itself to the point of reproducing your love in every bone, and every drop of blood in my body.
The sun has seen another day today, but I am still waiting for the moon, because that is when I can hide my love for you in the dark, as some one said: to hope is to act, and to act is to hope. I cannot blame you, but I’m just expressing my last remains of truth left inside my mind. I am sorry if I am overboard; let me sink in again, for again, it will be the same, again…