Thank you girl; thank you girl, I'll love you till THE END of the world

And so it comes to this, yet another ending.
So what the hell is my major malfunction? What the fuck is wrong with me, you may ask?
Those are fair questions, I suppose, but ones that do not come with an easy answer. But I imagine I can say that I have been yearning for this for quite some time... yearning for a change. And change is what this is all about, let me tell you. Recently, I have been subject to a paradigm shift in my life, that left me for the nth time pondering what was to be my path henceforth. I spent many an hour wondering, and wandering, and realized something that might've been so self-evident, that why, I had to have been either pretty blind or pretty stupid, pick one, not no have noticed it before.
Long time readers of my virtual ventures may remember a post I did some three years ago or so, in one of my blogs, maybe on United States of Mind or When the Music takes over, the Music takes control. There I wrote about something that I was about to embark on, a walkabout of a kind, a way for me to find balance in my oh so teetering life. As it happened, one day I sat down with a pencil and a piece of paper, and wrote down pretty much everything I thought was wrong with my life. Soon enough, I had hundreds of the buggers staring back at me. I then divided matters into two sides, that which could be taken care of, and that which did not seem at all feasible. After I had done this, I found myself with fifty-two things that I thought, that if only I could solve them, then I should be ok again. I called this 'The Fifty-Two Step Initiative'. My ultimate goal was to be, within the space of one year, the person I thought represented the best I ever was, the person I was a few years ago.
Little did I know, then, the folly of this initiative. I confess I did not take many things into account when I drew up this list, chief among them being my own pride, my ego, and my somewhat inability to actually change.
And, alas, I did not know something then that I do now.
And that thing is, the best person I ever was? What is that? What was that? A lie, an illusion? I'll tell you right now, as I have nothing to lose : I never was the best I can be.
I do know one other thing about this, and that's what was always expected of me, whether I was told or not, was that I had to be better than everyone else, that I had to be better than the rest. That's what I have always felt, that somehow, deep down, I had to go the extra mile that precious few were ever willing to go, and be better. Not just good, better.
I know that I should have been a better boy growing up, a better son, a better student, a better boyfriend, a better father, a better man.
But therein lies the rub, you see, because I never felt that I was good. Not just good enough, just good.
Maybe being good is something that you're born with, or maybe it's something that you have to learn. As for me, I do know what 'good', in the sense that most everyone else knows, actually means. And so I have to learn how to be good, before I can be better.
But... how to be good? Is it something that's related to what you do in your life? Or related to what you do with your life? Are the actions and inactions on your part decisive factors to gauge your goodness? Are concepts like ambition and success weighing factors to prove your worth? And what about self loathing and low expectations, do they show your mettle?
I don't know. It's funny, but a couple of years ago, right about this time, I was writing a post where I stated that after thirty years, I had become my fears. And now, now my fears stare back at me. And you know what they tell me? 'Relax. We're not here to hurt you. You manage that just fine on your own. Think of us like old friends, and like old friends, we'll grow old and die together'.
I am, as the years pass, becoming deathly afraid of living. As I look into what the future holds for me, damn me if I see a silver lining on the horizon. I feel the weight of time upon my shoulders, and I am no Titan that I can bear it so easily.
But there can still be change, surely? Is there not, in all human beings, the potential for change?
There is, aye. And so things will change for me. Have started changing for me. And very soon, in the next few months, hard decisions will be taken, and I will have to do something so very different than what I usually do for myself, that it is as daunting as it is exciting : I will have to challenge myself to actually succeed in something, and by succeeding, maybe even change myself.
And 'myself' has always been the part of the equation that I could not figure out. What I do know is that I am tired of being me. I am tired of being what I am not, and to coin a cliche, whatever people say I am, that's what I am not.
What I am is tired... tired of the life I have been steadily destroying for my own amusement, tired of loss, and tired of failure... it seems like everything (or pretty much...) has been a failure. Just look at my mess of a professional life, the neverending string of failed relationships, my own personal frustrations, my non-existant academical career... it's all bollocks, son.
And I am so tired of it. So tired of who and what I am... or who and what I thought I was, until I lost sight of that.
So what am I gonna be? What's gonna change? Well, I feel I need to sort of push the envelope, and reinvent myself, and hopefully, get to know me something better. Because, deep in my heart, I know I can be more than a failure.
I'll have to cope, I'll have to be strong, stronger than I have ever been, even though I feel like W.B. Yeats's poem, 'The Second Coming', when he says 'Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold'... it feels like I have lost the best part of me. I have gone back to feeling a pain that I'm used to, but I swear, I will stand up, poor and tired, but more than this.
But it's all part of the decisions I have been making... I will never again interfere with the chances of others to be happy. Life will go on, I suppose, and it may even go on for me.
And that's why I am saying farewell, my friends. It's time. I have already achieved what I wanted here, so now its time to pull down the curtain. It's time to take one last look at the old place before we look ahead into the realm of what is going to be. It will be like parting, that sweetest of sorrows, from a part of you that you once held dear, only to one day find that it had moved on, just like summer does. And, after all, sooner than we might wish, winter is coming...
So I ask one final thing of you : take these words, all these worlds I have given you, and keep them inside thy heart. Let them sit there, and move from one side to the other, until they gain new life, new rhythm. Take these words, I ask, and turn them into a song. And so, for now, wave goodbye, and leave your hands held high. Sing this song of courage long into the night!

This is how it ends.

[But... just as you think you were free, your mind starts to play tricks on you. After a seemingly endless and tiring day, you go home and draw a long, hot bath, and the warmth of the water soothes you so that you find your eyes closing, edging to a blissful sleep. And you dream... you dream of memories from another time, you dream of mementos from another world. Then there is a door in front of you. A plain, wooden door, plain in its conception, plain in its brownness, but it somehow beckons you to open it. You twist the handle, and the door creaks ever so slightly, but strangely ominously as it opens, and you enter the room. The room itself has no distinguishing features - a single bed, neatly made, a tiny bathroom, a flickering light that casts dim reflections on the shadows. Yet, you feel there is something here... and as your vision pans across the room, you find yourself walking towards a mirror. Was it there before? Impossible to say. It pulls to you, and you get closer and closer, and before you know it, you are staring at the looking glass before you. It's dark, darker than anything you have ever seen, darker than the distant fringes of the universe, darker than that moment when you fall asleep... and then, you look at it, straight at it, and it draws you in, through a glass, darkly. What happens on the other side of the Black Mirror?]

Dark and difficult times lie ahead. Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.

Now that the '36 Songs' project is done, and looking back at what I just wrote for my number one choice... well, did I cheat? I guess I kinda did. I cheated in the way that I gave no reason whatsoever as to why I chose 'Bigmouth' over all the other, countless, forgotten songs.
Now, to cut a long story short, let me just tell you that it fills the three pre-requisites I deem absolutely essencial for a good Pop song, and they are :

1) its danceability; and this is the one song that, wherever I am, whenever I am, with whomever I am, I will run to the dancefloor, and shake my booty.

2) the overall meaning of the lyrics, its context and subtext, and how much you can relate to them, how much you can feel that the song is actually saying something about your own life; and who here among us never felt like the situation described in 'Bigmouth'? Who among us never felt like Joan of Arc felt?

and

3) the voice of the singer has to touch me directly in my heart, in my soul (and this sounds waaayy better if you sing it to the Modern Talking song...); Truly I tell you : Morrissey's voice, remains to this day and age, the single most powerful and original voice yours truly has ever heard. This man has the ability to reach down to your core, grab you by the balls, and make you weep. That's how good he is, for me.

What I can also say is that it's very easy for a song to have one, maybe two parts of this equation present. But how many, to be fair, will have the three? There you go, not many.
One other thing I should tell you : the chief reason why I chose this song, was because I have been listening to it for over twenty years now, and without a doubt, it's the song I've heard the most during my lifetime, together with maybe 'Enjoy the silence', by Depeche Mode. To me this will always epitomize perfection in a Pop song, nay, in any kind of music you think. How many, do you deem, come close to such great heights?

I finish this rant here. I'm tired, sleepy, cranky, hungry, thirsty, cold, I have to start moving to my new place today, and I have to cope with a malfunctioning washing machine, and worst of all, I don't like it here anymore.
Before I go, one final notice : I have something very cool planned for my next project. I'll let you know what it is on the 8th of august.
I promise.
Cross my heart and hope to die, and stick a needle in my eye.

Song 1 : 'Bigmouth strikes again', The Smiths

Wrapping up this project, I am reminded of the penultimate chapter in Neil Gaiman's 'Sandman' saga, dubbed ' The Kindly Ones'. I shall not go into the story per se, I'll just add my two cents to a bit of fourth wall breaking that Gaiman did there in some of the issues. So what he would occasionally do would be to have the letterer (somewhat) deface the art of Marc Hempel or D'Israeli by scribbling some sentence along, above or below the borders of the panels. Now, what those sentences actually said as such, are things that I have literally long forgotten, but they would be something along the lines of : 'So close, now', 'It won't be long', 'Almost done, poppet' or 'I can see the end coming'. Something close to that, anyways, or near enough as makes no difference. What I relate to, what I can relate to, in this particular instance is the fact that you can be committed to and engrossed in a project, so much so that you know exactly how it begins, how A goes to B, how the story flows, what beats to place, how it ends, etc., only to - and as the end is near - feel so burdened by the weight of what you have done - and have yet to do - that you simply can no longer bear it. You want it to end, and you want it end bad. The end cannot come soon enough, you start to think. And then, right then, when the end is all but within your grasp... you flounder. You think that you have done good enough work, and that that final chapter can wait one more day. Or one more week, one more month, one more year.
For me, the end to this project has been a long time coming. I swear, if you go see how often I posted since the beginning of this endeavour, you'll see that most weeks I did a couple of posts, the only lull being these past few months. Oh, I know what derailed my train of thought, so to speak. I wanted to, on one hand, finish with the memoirs, and on the other, experiment with a small tale that ever so slightly relates to the song I chose. And choosing the right words and milieus for these deviations, well, they were harder than I expected. So I went into Song 3 knowing that the remembrances would be done, and I knew that for Song 2 I had my biggest challenge yet. I'll admit it, I kind of cheated there because in Song 2 there were some memories there, but they fit seamlessly into the narrative, so I don't feel that guilty. But when I was done... hell, I didn't even know where to start, not when it came to number one.
All I knew was that I had a few things to say, but I did not find an order for them. They fought amongst themselves here on the inside of my skull, banging to and fro, clashing, ripping, snatching, biting, gnawing, until they coalesced into something more... solid.
So this is it, I guess. This is why 'Bigmouth Strikes Again', and why only it could be numero uno.

'I find it amazing, looking back on it now, how long ago it was. How quickly fifteen years of my life went by, without me having any say so in the matter, or - even worse - without me having done anything particularly noteworthy in these years. Sure, I wrote some nifty pieces here and there, I hacked my way through a couple of (deservedly) unpublished novels, mostly fanfic rather than something truly original...
But... nothing. Nothing is what my existence thus far amounts to, and I can see how much I am, albeit partly, to blame for that. Take my writings, for example. I never - ever - wrote something close to a happy ending. Of course, some endings were rather ambiguous, and depending on your state of mind you could either be hopeful for the unwritten future of these characters, or you could be hopelessly depressed and somewhat let down. And one of my other tendencies was to write myself into my stories, and I would try to make sure that at least my creations would know happiness, but hey, who am I kidding, right? I have always been an introvert, and whenever I wrote it was only a matter of time until that particular, defining moment in the character's path where blood will out came along. How can I be suprised when what I wrote (in essence for myself, and truly, honestly about myself) turned out to be my actual life? I can't, and I wasn't. The perils of creating avatars of your own self, and then making them go through hell and generally making them miserable, is that, unconsciously or not, you are bound to repeat the same mistakes, to live through the same ordeals.
See? This I just did? It's so typically me it hurts. I mean, I start in one direction, and before I know it, I'm ranting all over the place.
I was, initially at least, talking about how time flew by me this past decade and a half, but what I neglected to tell you is that something very important happened to me, lo those many years ago : my dad passed away, and with him, I guess, went some of my will to live. Now, me and my dad? We were as thick as thieves. He was my best friend, my shoulder to cry on, my best hope of being someone... someone else. I guess we were so close, so much closer than a simple blood relation, because he knew what I had inside me. He knew the thoughts that lurked in the deep, dark recesses of my heart. After all, he had gone through the same. So we were more than just kin, we were like one soul that lived in the same place, though separated by the constraints of mortal flesh. When he was gone... well. If, by then, I had little fight left in me, you can imagine how well I coped.
And It's funny, and sad, how well I can remember the last time I saw him. I had managed to take a sick day in whatever dead-end job I was doing at the moment, and I went to see him at the hospital. Now, dad, he had a rare form of cancer that was attacking his brain. It was diagnosed many years ago, and he managed to fight it and keep in remission for a long time, longer than the quacks gave him, time and time again. But as time went on, he started losing his strength, and eventually, the cancer fought back and won. For the past year or so he'd been in the hospital, and as you can guess, there were some good days, and there were some bad days. Once in a while, he'd look at me with his deep-set brown eyes and say, 'it is a terrible thing indeed to lose one's mind'. And for dad, who always had a keen intellect and a sharp mind, to spend entire days trying to figure out the meaning of a single word, well, in the end that killed him as much as the cancer did. That last time, I found him sleeping when I got to his bed. He looked so peaceful, as if in preparation for what was to come. I sat by him, and clutched his hand. After a while, he woke up, and by the sheen in his eyes, I could see it was going to be one of the good days.
'Hey, champ', he said. He always had a cutesy nickname for me at the ready. When it wasn't 'champ', it was something like 'sport' or 'slugger'. I cannot impress upon you how much I loved it when he did that.
'What time is it?', he asked, bleary from having just woken up. 'It's early, but getting close to lunch time', I said. 'When the nurse comes by, I'll make sure that we get you something nice to eat, insofar as you can call food here 'nice'.'
Truth be told, the nurse that oversaw my dad - and a few other patients as well - was a sweet young girl called Natalia, for whom I have nurtured a crush for the longest time. She is so incredibly nice to dad, and she always make sure that he's ok. I wonder why I never asked her out.
I gave dad the newspapers I had bought on the way, and he quickly thumbed through them. There is very little nowadays that bothers him enough to give it more than a passing glance. I've tried, a few times before, to bring him some of his favourite books to read, but he hasn't got the kind of mental strength left in him to finish them. After a while, I just stopped bringing them, and he never said a word, though I knew that deep inside he was feeling ashamed for himself, for having lost that which he prized the most : his wits.
He leaned further back in his cushions - as it is, he was too weak to get out of bed - and asked me, 'How about you, kiddo? How's life been treating you?'
I gave him a wan and tired smile, that told him everything. 'Oh, you know.', I replied meekly.
I sighed, my chest heaving so that it seemed as if I was burdened with all the worries in this world and the next.
He beckoned me closer, and I sat sadly by his side.
He said, 'So what are you gonna do about that? I'm sure we had this conversation a few years ago... remember when I asked you if you knew the difference between doing what's easy and doing what's right?' I knew he was leading me into a trap - this was a telltale sign that very deep inside this husk that is my father, there still lingers the man he once was.
'Dad', I said, 'that's all well and good... but you know perfectly well that we - and by 'we', I mean you and me - don't live in a black and a white world. We see things as they are, and we live in-between shades of gray. So concepts like 'right', 'wrong', 'easy' or 'hard' are just too lowbrow for us. That said, I do know the difference between all those concepts. I just find them hard to apply to my existence. You know this.'
He closed his eyes, and moved his lips up and down, as if fishing for the right words. He then said, his hand over his eyes, 'I'm sorry, son. I have cursed you. By sheer dint of living - and by giving life to you - I have doomed you to relive my life, a life that is so void of emotional context that I would not wish it upon my most hated enemy. If I had an enemy, that is. And if I could hate.'
'Dad', I hushed him, 'It's okay. I have long made my peace with this life, and for better or for worse, I live still.'
'Knock knock', announced the voluptuous voice of nurse Natalia, and I could not bare to look straight at her. 'Look who's up and running!', she said to dad, happily. 'Well, more like lying down and being still...', He replied with a wink.
'So... for lunch today we have the following choices', she said, producing a battered old menu that showed the same options for the past five years or so. 'One : mash potatoes with sausage (she put out her tongue after saying this, indicating that it would be wise to chose something else), two : lasagna, (and the way she said, rolling out the last few syllables also indicated that this was something also best left alone) and three : mac and cheese (she pinched her nose while saying this, to let us know how well the thing must have smelled.)'
Dad looked positively crestfallen. There were some days where he just could not remember how to eat, so bad they were, and the nurses, after trying - and failing - to feed him, decided to feed him intravenously. It did seem hard that in one of his better days in a long time, he couldn't eat something he liked.
'On the other hand', she said, 'I did bring an extra peanut butter and cheese sandwich, which I know is your favourite, so...'
Dad beamed at this, and I felt galled. Why did I not bring him a sandwich? While I pondered, weak and weary, about another of my shortcomings, she went to her locker, and brought him the sandwich.
He quickly wolfed it down, and then lay back on the bed with a grin in his face. This moment had made him happy, and I too, felt happy for him.
We spent a few minutes in abject silence, until he said : 'You know, sport, you're still young. You can change. You can still achieve so much. There's still time. There's always time.'
'Oh father', I sighed. 'Time is an illusion. How much longer until I find myself looking at myself in the mirror and not recognising me anymore? Already I see the white in my hair, and the days creeping by faster than ever. Time is an illusion. I am not growing up... I am growing old.'
'And what of it?', he inquired. 'So what if you're growing old? Hell, kid, we all do. I was just like you not so long ago, and now look at me, here I am. Do you think change is something exclusive to growing up? Now listen, boy : the one lesson I had hoped you had learned by now is that all things change, and we change with them! Do you see what I'm trying to say to you? Be the change you want to see!'
'And what do I do, then?, I asked. 'Easy, scout. Why be yourself, when you can be just like everybody else? Make it easy on yourself, and accept that you will have to conform to the norm. You can always become a robot. Get one of their haircuts. Go to one of their schools. Dress just like every other drone. Get married, have some kids, work, get old, and die.'
'Oh?', I said, 'And do what you did not do? I can't, dad... I haven't got in me, not anymore, and I do not know if I ever did... Oh father, I can feel the soil falling over my head...'
'Hey. Hey! Don't do that to me, you hear? I am not one of your lackwit colleagues who will not recognise the lyrics to a song when it's spewed out at me, you know? I am your father, Luke.'
We both chuckled at that moment of brief jest, and then fell silent once more.
When I was convinced that he had fallen asleep, he opened his eyes to speak : 'You know, when your mother decided to leave me, lord knows I was hurt. I did more hurting than I ever thought possible, and in some kind of way, in our own twisted way, I guess I never stopped loving her. And I do miss her everyday. But you know what, kiddo? If there's one thing I am going to miss when I have shuffled off this mortal coil, it's these moments of silent lucidity we have. Talking to you, being here for you, feeling you near me. But not too long now, not really long, I'll have to leave you...'
'It's not fair, dad', I said, with tears in my eyes. 'I love you so very much...'
'My son, do not labour under the misapprehension that life is fair! Life is what it is, and what we make - or fail to make - of it, though I know that for such as you and I... there are so many things that kill us along the way. If anything, it's our lives that are killing us.'
At that moment, I felt a wave of feelings washing over me. I felt a queasy sort of happiness, just from the fact that my soul knew it was not alone in this world, but I also felt a nigh unbearable sadness from knowing that I would soon be utterly alone.
'If I never told you, kiddo, I have always been very proud of you. And I know you know that you are who you choose to be. I have not watched over you this long just so your world would fall apart after I leave. Promise me, son. Promise me. You will find someone who cares for you, and whether you find true love or not, you will make someone happy.'
'Dad... c'mon, you know it's not easy for me. I mean, where I am not found wanting, I have in excess. Who would want me?', I asked him earnestly.
'Well', he said, 'I have seen the nurse making the eyes at you, and she did ask me once if you were seeing anyone...'
'Shyeah', I snorted. 'As if.'
'But yeah, dad. If it makes you happy... then I promise I will try. Though I know the pain that comes with trying and succeeding, as well as with trying and failing, I will try.'
Weary with sleep, for we had been at this for hours, he smiled, ever so lightly, as if his lips were so bruised that it hurt him to smile, and said : 'That's good, slugger. Now come and give your old man a hug. I need to get some rest'.
I went over to him, and hugged him so fiercely, as if my very life depended on it. 'I'll see you soon', I promised.
'Good. Now let me rest.', he said, drifting to the deepest sleep he would ever know.
As I was leaving the room, Natalia the nurse was walking by, and she asked me how dad was. 'Sleeping', I replied. 'And how are you holding up?', she asked. 'For some reason, these hospital visits always leave me kind of depressed. Every time I go to the hospital, the manic-depressive in me thinks that this'll be the time when two big male nurses will stop me on the way out and then commit me to the loony bin, but I guess so far I have been lucky.', I said, trying to be funny, but hoping she did not see the serious undertone in my speech.
She laughed at this, and said that she would have me committed herself if I didn't ask her out.
Puzzled, I stumbled upon some words, and amidst the jumble of phrases that came out of my mouth, I managed to stammer something cohesive enough to get her phone number.
I left the building, walking on air, feeling the light drizzle that fell upon me. I do not remember ever having gotten home, but somehow I got to my place. I sat down in the sofa, and the phone rang. Hopefully, I thought that it would be Natalia calling me, and I wasn't wrong. I yearned feverishly to hear her voice, but she only sobbed. When finally she spoke, she said 'I'm so sorry...'

[Interludium : When the moon is full we shall assemble to adore the potent spirit of your Queen,
My mother great Diana. She who fain would learn all sorcery, yet has not won it's deepest secrets,
then my mother will teach her in truth, all things as yet unknown.]

Beijing to Amsterdam - Berlin to Buenos Aires - Sydney to L.A. - Rio to Abidjan - Stockholm to Athena - Dublin to Guatemala - London to Brasilia - Madrid to Philadelphia - Paris to San Fransisco - Detroit to Warszawa - Moscow to Mexico - Oslo to New Delhi - Helsinki to New Orleans - Vienna to Ankara - Roma to Lisboa - New York to Tokyo - Melbourne to Budapest - Prague to Jaipur - Shanghai to Montreal - Vancouver to Singapore - Sofia to Johannesburg - Hong Kong to St. Petersburg.

Song 2 : 'How it ends', DeVotchKa

Adrift and lost amidst the eternal expanses of space, in the cold desolations of long dead galaxies whose cluster star systems are now reduced to cosmic debris, roaming alongside the phantom trails of comets of aeons gone by and suns whose flame flickered millenia ago, there floats a lonely asteroid, against the stark blackness of the forever sea of stars and soundless void.
Inside this asteroid, barren, mournful, bleak, unseen, there wanders the last surviving life form in this dying universe, waiting for it to die, so that it can too, and finally, die. This wraith is clad in white, a long robe of flowing albus, and his beard and hair grew long and white until it could grow no longer, or whiter. He sits in a throne he fashioned from the remains of a shoal of fish-like tachyon particles he came across in Beta Tauri a number of decades ago, or possibly thousands of years ago, for time - for him and in this place - has long lost any kind of meaning, since there are no more people to make the days seem easier -or harder - to endure, there are no more devices who tell what time it is. Now there is only he, and he alone can tell time what it is.
In the throne, twice his height and three time his girth, he sits in deep thought, sometimes for what could be measured as decades at a time. He allows his mind to race to events that occured lifetimes ago, but the details are increasingly sketchy... his knowledge knows no boundaries, for he has learned the secret patterns of the universe, he has seen the rise and fall of intergalactic fauna and flora, whose existence was as ephemeral as evanescent waves from gamma rich pulsars, or as far reaching as the auroras of suns that were old when most of the known universe was still young. The only constant in all this knowledge he has amassed throughout the eras he has lived, is that he has forgotten more - so much more - than every single being that ever lived could ever hope to learn. And it is these lapses in his memory that wound him the most : he has, and by virtue of events that are now alien to his mind, events that sent his existence into this higher plane of being, forgotten or shunned many of the things that once made him what he was : human.
How long ago since he last tasted the zesty taste of fruit, or the redness of a rich meat? When was the last time he supped on game and drank wine by the goblets, and let himself fall into a joyful innebriation? When was the last time he heard music, or so much as heard the whisper of some voice, familiar or otherwise? So long ago, in fact, that he secretly believes that none of those things ever happened - they are but ghosts of dreams he had in his youth, who now come back to haunt him.
But in December, this planetoid where he inhabits, which he must have somehow named in distant days, times are darkest when, in contemplation, he turns to the other memories, to the memories of others.
Eyes closed, their lids burdened by weights that would drown empires, his hand over his forehead as if shading his eyes in shame, he tilts his head sideways, and remembers.
Truth be told, he doesn't know exactly what he remembers - he only knows that these things may or may not have happened, he has no way of ascertaining the one or the other. But the memories remain, and he relives days gone by once more.
Once, when he was young - impossibly so, it seems to him -, things were different. He was, and to all intents and purposes, someone else, not this wisp of existence so far removed from everything else. And that previous existence, that other state of mind and being, is what haunts him.
He remembers.
He remembers the voices of others with whom he all too briefly shared his life, and he remembers the laughter and the warmth of another human body, 'round him coiled in the softness of a bed that has long ago crumbled to sub-atomic dust. These are the things he truly misses. When he feels the pangs of despair rapping at the doors of consciousness, he allows himself to slip further into the reverie, and, if only for the tiniest of moments, he recalls what feeling was actually like.
But now, in the oh so distant future, feelings are but words that echo in his mind. How many were there? And how pungent and puissant were those self-same feelings? He recalls the bilious sensation of hatred. Why? Why woud he ever hate anything? How could he have ever hated anything? True, he now has the gift of a never-ending span of time between what is and what was to see how misguided he was, but it doesn't make it easier to understand. Why waste so much of what he perceived as a limited time of his life harbouring those feelings? The answer comes to him : it is because if there is hate, then there must also be its shadow, its counterpart. How was it called? Lust. No, that can't be right. Passion? Closer. There is an element of it there, sure, but it's not the whole of it. There is desire and longing. Wanting, needing, pleading. The sighing and the crying, parts of a whole. Parts of a hole? A heart-shaped hole. A heart that was once filled with... how did they call it? Love.
Ah, that elusive feeling, love. He can conjure up a number of faces, mayhap even names if he has to, that once professed love for him, or to whom he vowed to love eternally. Long dead, long faded into obscurity. He ponders on the nature of love often. What is love? What, when it comes down to it, does love mean? In the untold years that he has lived, he still finds no easy answer. He does know that when he was younger, when he was that other someone else, he thought of love as but a feeling - a feeling that, and depending on the circumstances, could be as fleeting as an orgasm, or as lasting as a lifetime. Ah, the follies of youth. It would take him many more years, during that lifetime, to find out that love is not just a feeling. It is a many splintered and ever evolving thing, that will never be the same the second time round. The feeling that it is, is just a part of what it actually is. But what is it? What defines this feeling to which we slave ourselves over and makes cowards or heroes out of each and every single one of us? With the first one he knew, he thought he understood the feeling, and he thought he knew love. He thought that love would last forever. He was wrong.
Then came two and three and many more, and love - in the rare instances where it was indeed present - was always different.
But it was a feeling, sure. A feeling of heralded greatness, of promised bliss. He was, above all, naive.
For then came a time, a time unlike any other he had hitherto experienced when he finally realized what was eluding him : Love was not a feeling. It wasn't just a feeling. Nay, it was more than a feeling.
It was more than a feeling : It became a choice as well. A way to live your life, for the alternative was too frightful to be contemplated. And, being a choice - and as choices are wont to -, it brings with itself consequences and repercussions.
Perhaps the most stinging consequence of chosing something is that it entails yet another choice - to be strong and be content with the choice you have made, or to press the reset button and keep on repeating the same mistakes time and time again and again, world without end.
And choice... the one he made, the one he never regretted... a distant day, a day so long ago... he wonders : where are they, the days that time erased? Once, the flame of youth lay in wait, but too late now...
He was lying on a bed with her. The name is too sacred to be spoken, and he has not the energy to utter it, not anymore. But in bed, around her arms, the radio (a primitive device that broadcast words and sounds over airwaves) played a haunting requiem softly to his ear... he knows how it begins : ever so quietly, a piano forebodes of a declaration to be made, and soothing cello strings are artfully plucked to accomodate the words that will invade, that will permeate from within. Then the man sings... no, his is not just any voice, he doesn't just sing : it's as if he howls to the mooon itself, it's as if the fate of the universe hinged on the very words he brings into this world, urgent and heart-felt, poignant and tinged with the power of delight : it was the cry of mankind.
He knows how it begins, but try as he might, he can no longer recall how it ends.
Outside, in the star strewn panorama of the doomed universe, something shifts : a shadow stirs, a bird streches its wings for the final time. He feels this, and he know that this universe's dying throes are but a prelude to the one that will be soon birthed. Struggling with the atrophy in his muscles, slowly and ponderously he makes his way out of the throne-room, passing through the antechamber that leads to the celestial dome from which he can observe. The last two remaining stars in the universe - twin supernovas at that - prepare to take a bow. Their light taking an erubescent hue, he smiles. He knows what comes next. In all honesty, he feels relieved : this universe had been pushing him towards obsolescence for millions of years now, and he was more than happy to oblige.
The star on the left, huge and bloated like a woman about to give birth to octuplets erupts in an atomic frenzy of fire. Its sister responds in fashion, and the universe calls it a day.
He closes his eyes, awaiting for the wave of light and fire to turn him into cinder. Arms outstretched, like Christ on a cross, he is turned to ashes, turned to dust.
He smiles as he dies. It's going to be a glorious day, this much he knows.
He will be born again, the energy that forms his core will coalesce in the new universe, and he will continue.
And he shall remember, deep down he will remember the choice that stayed with him, day after long day, year after neverending year. And he will be pleased.
And he will know that, maybe, just may be, that's how people grow up.

Song 3 : 'Let Down', Radiohead

And so here we are. And it just so happens that in this song, with this song, I shall write about a period of my life that (and in comparison to others) I rarely touch upon, and this, I hope, will be like a farewell letter to those days.
Remember when I said I'd write about three girls called Sara here? Well, two of them already had their chance to shine, and now it's time for the last one. Last, but not the least. Let us just say that I saved the best for last.
But before this, let me tell you of my relationship with this band : I think that they are amazing musicians, and that Thom Yorke is a gifted lyricist, blessed with one of the most harrowing voices ever. I have been a fan of them ever since I first heard 'Creep', way back when. But my being a fan ends with 'OK Computer'. Everything they did after that has been one snooze fest after the other. Something happened to these guys - I don't know, maybe they just got older or started to take themselves way too seriously - that made them become deathly dull.
One incident I recall with particular lucidity, was when, a number of years ago (and before we started going out) I asked Claudia (she of songs 33 & 32) if he liked Radiohead.
Understand this, I asked this not out of any particular interest about wheteher she liked the band or not, it was more because I myself had doubts if I still liked the band, and I sometimes felt like I was part of a minority of people who truly appreciated the band.
Her answer well and truly devastated me : 'Well, everyone likes 'OK Computer'...'
I thought, 'Really? They do? Hmmm.'
In 2005, mere four years ago, I met Sara. Beautiful, tragic, sad Sara, who won me over in the instant I met her, to whom I pledged my heart soon after. Sara is someone who will always have a special spot in my heart. She is truly one of the only living souls for whom I cared so much. And would you believe it if I told you that for every moment of happiness, there were five more where she'd call me or text me at four a.m., saying that she wanted to die, and then I'd call her, and we'd be on the phone until my words lulled her back to sleep? Would you believe it if I told you that there were dozens of times where we'd close together, so, so close, and then something in that peculiar mind of hers would drive her to tears and there would be a great distance between us? Would you believe ii if I told you that for every great story she'd tell me, there were ten others that would reduce me to tears too, and that she offered me no words of comfort?
But still, I loved her. I loved her while I was with her, I loved her when I was in her presence, and I loved her hundreds and hundreds of miles away. And every time, every single time I felt that I could escape from her web, she'd lure me him. Week in, week out. Month after month after month.
I stopped loving her when I learned how to say 'No' to her, even though it broke my heart. It was the single hardest thing I ever did, but I don't regret it. Not when I can still look back and remember what good there was once.
And one of the best things we had was this song. Our song. Even when, on occasion, Sara goes to one of my DJ sets, if I play this song, then we alone know what it means for us.
Sara : you will never read these words, that much I do know. But this will be the last time that I will devote a single line to you. This is my song to say goodbye.
I have grown my wings. I hope one day you can grow yours too.

Song 4 : 'Louise', Clan Of Xymox

Ahhh... and once more we delve into the mists of time, time long gone by, and we see, clearly and as if through a mirror that looks both inwardly and outwardly, a youth who rather tended to observe others than take part on whatever else others were doing. This lad would, as if from a distance, be in awe of the ethereal and ghostlike quality of the songs he heard in a garage lo those many years ago, and he would be close his eyes, pretending to know what was the true meaning of the words that those singers of yore sang, and he would flow downwards into the stream of his consciuosness, until he reached that comfort zone he knew so well, and he would then join his brother and his friends, their arms streched upwards and sideways, moving ever slowly as if swimming in dry land, and he would dance.
Now, this lad was not alone in these endeavours, no. He had his older sibling to look up to (and look up to him he did, even if but only short years later they'd start on a path that would make them drift apart), and some of his sibling's friends as well. This lad - were he alive today - would suffer, every now and then from bitter pangs of a remembrance served in dusty and aged cups, and he would - sadly - remember a boy called Nuno, also known as 'Snail'.
This friend he had, a short while later, would suffer a terrible accident that would send him into a wheelchair for as long as he lived, and this lad of whom I write feels an enormous surge of self-loathing for never, not even once since that day so long ago, having directed so much as a word of support for his belaboured friend.
But before that... before that, and peering behind the veil once more, we see this pudgy youth sitting in a darkened room some twenty or more years ago, seeing other boys, three, four, five years his senior dancing to the sound of the underground. And he liked that. He liked the feeling that he was in a parallel dimension, with voyeuristic intentions, seeing and learning all.
In those days, a score of years ago, all things in life didn't seem as important or as urgent as they would eventually be, and he allowed himself fanciful - but fleeting - whims of romance, of nostalgia for the days to come when he'd look back upon these days, and he would lose himself, not necessarilly in the words whose meanings he could not yet fully fathom, but on the music of the night that he heard every weekend or so during one of those legendary matinees in the garage.
More often than not, it would be the beleaguered, tragic character that went by the name of Snail who would introduce us to whatever new band he was into, and through him I learnt most of what would be my coda for my musical future : it was this boy who first brought us mixtapes (and oh, how many there were of them! Even if said mixtapes often would include such smash hits like 'Cheerio' by The Monroes...), mixtapes that showed me the voices of Morrissey and Hussey, Curtis and Murphy, Gahan, Gore and Ure, Bell, Eldritch and... Ronny Moorings, the genius behind Clan of Xymox.
In all honesty, Clan of Xymox is a band that I followed only up to a certain point. Somwehere in the early-to-mid nineties something changed inside of me, and I no longer had an interest in whatever they did. I much rather preferred to listen to their first efforts, the self titled 'Clan Of Xymox', and its follow-up, the sublime 'Medusa'.
It is in 'Medusa', nestles snuggly between 'Theme II' and 'Lorretine' that we find this haunting dirge called 'Louise'. There is only a small percentage of the people who are close indeed to me who have ever seen me dancing. Know that out of all the songs in creation, this is the one - alongside my choice for number one on my list - that will make me leave everything I'm doing and dance to it. It brings me back many, and good at that, memories of dancing to this song. I distinctly remember many a time when I played my seduction gambit by dancing to this song, thereby winning the hearts and favours of many a maiden, such was their proclivity towards me, after seeing me own the floor.
The next song is 'Louise' :