My Little Tune

I'm tempted to count the number of days since I stopped writing, but suffice to say that it has been a long time. Last I remember, it was summer. Now fall is drawing to a close, and the trees on campus are clinging desperately to the last vestiges of their foliage. I'm in my room, safe from the cold outside, headphones clamped to my ears, the voice of Sarah Maclachlan seemingly emanating from the centre of my head. Yes, centre, not center. The mark of inertia, of a stubborn rejection, of a stoic refusal to melt and dissolve into this (still) strange new culture that we've been thrown into. She says, "So, so moving on to love, something I'm very obsessed with..." Yes it's a wonderful thing. To love, to know that somewhere out there there's someone who thinks of you, even if it's not often felt, or even if it sometimes seems too much to handle, too heavy to hold. If there's one thing to be obsessed with, I'd be obsessed with love. It's the one thing that does not ever change, that lifts you up, throws you down, and spins the world around you just like it has done to billions of people before you. I don't ever want to stop loving, I don't ever want to have to remember those throes of passion like they are a thing of a past. :) Why be afraid of love? Why fear that warm touch, that calming kiss, that dizzying sense of soaring....? Why be afraid to tell someone that you love him, or her? Why wait till you find yourself standing outside the concert hall, back in the cold, empty cells of reality before you finally muster enough courage to shout "Encore!" ?

So here I am, in my room, and I'm thinking of all the things I haven't done since. I haven't played my guitar; I haven't written a single song, cos I can't write a song without my guitar. But I've written a poem, about how much I miss music, and about how much I miss someone. Because she made me want to sing, and write, and play. Because thinking of her makes the words rhyme, and makes the notes fall into place. Even though I doubt she'll ever read this blog, well, that's not the point is it? So here it is:

There's a little tune
That floats in the air
It passes through a door
And settles down to where
I'm sitting all alone
Wishing I was home
Hoping that some wind would bear
On silver wings
Me
To where
The silence sings
Me
To where
Those fondest memories lie
Like quivering flames
That are tempted to die

There's a little tune
That rings in my head
Like a crashing wave
On a barren flower bed
Broken I'm cracking,
I'm yearning for water
I'm searching for my voice
Then sand turns to clay and
I'm soaking, I'm breathing
At last
Those notes
Gently floating
To a place I cannot see
To whereI think you'll be.

... someone give me a guitar, so I don't forget what I was (I guess) born to do.