Instead of posting a winding status on Facebook and risking another text message from my best friend to please refrain from being sappy (unless it’s her kind of mush), I’m posting my thoughts as a blog entry here. Ok, to start with, I’m not a big fan of Roxette and woe to you if you don’t know who I’m talking about. But you’re excused if you were born in the late 80’s onwards haha!
I found this gem while trying to find songs I can use as white noise for work. I can’t really have meaningful songs roaring in the background as I write, as music tends to drag me in and put me under its spell, and I’d find an hour has passed as eargasms rock my universe.
The opening lines to So Far Away which goes “In the coldest time of year…” grabbed my attention for its narrative feel, and yes I’m feeling particularly antsy as the seasons change. To some extent, the amount of available light affects my moods, and the colder December nights tend to push me to think upon thoughts that are not necessarily my own.
Please have a listen before you read further… 🙂
What did you think of the song? If you’ve never been heartbroken, never had cracks imprinted upon your psyche, never had your heart shredded by circumstance, it’s quite a stretch to relate with this song. If you’ve never longed so badly for someone, to burn with all your being t have that someone be beside you, right now…you get it right?
If you’ve ever placed all your hopes and dreams in the cup of promises held out to you out of pity or sympathy, you’ll know. If for many instances, you’ve reimagined the scene where you’ll meet again, you’ll know.
So Far Away. You left me. You told me would stay. You never said goodbye…
Letting go is like being asked to stop breathing. You can’t. Although at certain points being oxygen starved is all you wished, to stop the hurting, the pain, the loneliness. the friggin alone-ness. The fucking singularness of everything in your life after you broke up, or after he left you, or after you disappeared. And it is that cursed singularity that would drive you mad, and push you to do crazy things you’d not otherwise do if you’re sober.
It’s that single cup of morning coffee, the emptiness of air your hungry hands grab as you take a walk, the quiet bus ride, the dark windows when you go home, the silence of your phone.
People in love are drunk, and people kicked out of the couplehood instigated by love are the worst drunks on the planet. And at this point, you realize how people placed so much value on closure, it’s like an untouchable currency that magically replenishes itself. Closure. The kind of ending where you and she or he or it converse quietly at an empty cafe, where all your questions are answered, where you, honestly, expect that a sudden twist in the plot would make you and she end up a couple again.
But what if I tell you, closure is overrated? That people leave you or you leave people because their part in your story has ended. Would you believe if I say, sometimes we’re given people at certain points in our lives, to make us realize and look at ourselves in a more honest way, and see ourselves for who we are?
And the longing returns, not exactly as you remembered. Not quite as sharp that you bleed. Not so insistent that you forget to blink.