Soul Remedy

This began, I believe, with the inappropriate and abrupt anthem of voices too close. I gulped these tones and progressions the way that they should, for a cautious person, be sipped. Upon uncovering my weak knees and distortion, I steadied myself with childish wisdom: "Well. Do something." Despite my altercation with such simple resolution, no particular "something" seem reasonable. In reaction, previously, I was troubled with clarity. "Yes, of course," I told myself. "Do something. And yet, which something?" This something. 

Anthony Hamilton & Elayna Boynton | Freedom

If by no other of my unmentionable survey of qualities, I can always be caught by my ability to write. Not yet well enough to make stumbling fool of my reader, but I like to pretend that someday I might. I am a veteran to the sound of my own voice, a survivor of my own prose, a patient to my sense of purposeful verbosity.
Such freedom in release, and damnation in reflection.

Fink | Perfect Darkness

I stumbled across this song and dipped into my own skin. I was allowed melancholy without remorse. It soothed me the way that a voice from the west calms me in the night after terrors and moments of immeasurable hatred. My hands, shaken, prayed for rain and this night-whisper is close to such precipitant salvation. My own voice speaks ahead of me, coaxes my will differently. Sleep, wake, go on.

Eternal Morning | Love Is

In my times of weakness, I owe that same voice for catching my hand or foot before action. The breath which follows that moment belongs to it, and the next morning's breath as well. My feelings worsen, at times, but I last another day in its honour and at its request. And so, sleep. Wake. Go on.

Martina Topley Birc | Snowman

I have a friend from Korea I had lived with in first year, who would stay up late with me when, what I know now to be anxiety, kept me up at night. We would unearth music such as this and lay silently. The decision to cause injury in a way that quieted the second and third voices in my head, a pain similarly burdensome, was a welcome one. My alertness under the coming dawn suddenly carried purpose, and nights were no longer valueless. Still, in hearing this particular tune, my skin grows cold, I smile through torture, make friends with simple sorrows, and keep disparate contemplation at bay.

And so, forward. Explanations hold less beauty, it seems, than the drama of sweet undoing in between four-beat-single-bar symphonies like the ones found by the ears of an audiophile.