This song; it runs its loping fingers through my hair in the unholy hours when I am lost to myself; it calls to me of those nameless, timeless moments, so alive in the dark that I could slave them in the trembling fist of my hand.
It sings of breathless inky nights, shadows peeling off the walls, the air thick and furious with possibility; smoke gripping like a lover. Time stretching on in its knowing infinity, an ever-expanding rubber band with you and I paused immaculate at the centre, a precious pebble, specks suspended in amber; time moving forwards and backwards and up and away, leaving us blinking and astonished and immobile. And the sound, the song; all the while it circles us in its whirlpool current.
We are pinned in the moment, ashy we-wings held fast on the corkboards of time; dust motes cradled by the dark; air syrupy upon night-swept skin. I am made of the same nothing too, the air and I streaming in and out of each other. You and I, our breath so slow that we observe little deaths crashing upon us between the in and the out; gazing upon a great unanswerable pause where we dare to wonder what it may mean to fall once again into yet another moment of life; the temptation of emptiness sliding into us at the peak of each ponderous wave.
I grip the slicked cotton sheets and feel my eyes swivel to the staining of headlights across the wall; I am nothing, I am everything, as is this moment; you and I knowing we do not exist without the other. We have nowhere else to be, otherness ebbed away. The song plays on, bearing witness to what this is.
The very molecules of life still their dance; now we are breathing in and in and in, the moment and I; we are lovers without agency, two oceans crashing upon the other; we are broken things, hungry mouths gaping like little skinned birds.
Why do countless crumbs of our lives go undecorated and unremembered, while others hold themselves immaculately with time, polished and protected? The song, it is the song, for it did a miraculous thing; it reached itself out and drew its arms around the night.
Time glides on, jettisoning each rejected second, but the song, that will always exist; and so the moment, too, holds on.
This is really nice Belinda, thank you for sharing it.