Tranquilli ft. Aster
There is no music conducting your body to execute a vision. In truth, there never was a vision to uphold to. You vaguely outline the hours you spent analyzing movements and taking away what you liked and didn’t like, the ones that were too complicated and messy looking. Erase the slate and redraw your own masterpiece; everything you found inclination towards being a conglomerate of precision and languor, contradictions make art out of your young sinew. It was the first time you witnessed your father come back to you from that dark place he frequented too often. Beauty was a remedy for his downfall and you learned, with meticulous care, how to quell the feeling of descending, long enough to make it appear bearable. That’s the sad thing about retrospect; you know now that the ends of some books were not meant to be satisfying, flowers wither into feeble skeletons even if you water them and place them in sunlight, and your father could play make-believe well enough to fool you. So he did. Simple. Though, you spent those months of your life feeling as if you had just cured the impossible. Your passion turned into magic, viscous in your veins labored love and dedication. These remedies weren’t so much for him, when you think of it now.
You raise onto the ball of one foot, noticing pressure that accompanied an inexperienced burn no longer existent and you, for once, feel as selfish as the peers and teachers and brokenhearted love affairs left in the rain have painted you.
Maybe this is the vision. Maybe you just needed a bit of escapism to nullify impending misfortune, hanging there in the forefront of every reality like something willing to swallow the whole scene and leave you nothing to make sense of. This is a fear; to watch an aspect change without acknowledging that it is doing so because you don’t know it is, because your eyes are set on the stagnant variables while it morphs inside out and beyond recognition. Then you blink and lose focus of the parts that kept you comfortable. New picture.
The picture is decaying.
No picture.
You are decaying.
And here you are without music, toes pointed with the tide of gravity. Ebbing, it takes you gently as if you were as malleable as you wish to be when pressure seems to contort your bones and sentiments into the wrong places, confusing them for one another; by now it feels as if your spine has been made of silences you held your tongue from filling to and the sharpened words you utilized to keep it straight. It remains so, strong but just fragile enough, arching in the refraction of sunlight through a dusted window. It remains so, that melancholic look in your eyes that says you’re staring into the chaos of yesterdays and trying to reach in and pull out the errors as if you would change them somehow in doing so. It remains so, pain followed by the numbing of all sensations, and then remembering all of the times you’ve repeated this action to get to where you are. To end up only doing it again. But it’s beautiful like most terrifying situations prove to be, in ways that remain unexplained, and you think, surely, it is because they would lose their luster otherwise. Like it, the secrecy encompassing your innermost musings and the affections that lie idly by them, perhaps in mourning still, reaffirms exclusivity. The priceless prize.
You would think, as you crumble at the knees, abandoned concrete echoing back to life with the hum of your finale; your exclamation, that the masterpiece itself was not the art nor you, but that it was an expression so boldly outspoken. It was a glimpse of your soul, multifaceted, without uttering a single, tarnishing word.