December 11, 2010

HOLD ON (WHILE WE ARE ON THE SUBJECT OF MUSIC, RIGHT, EH?)


Now, I am perfectly aware of the actual story behind Sarah McLachlan's song, so nobody needs to email me and go, "but this isn't what the song is about." I know. I don't care. When I first heard it, the lyrics moved in quite a different kind of fashion, and it's one of those songs that stil has my heart break a little when I hear it.
My love
you know that you're my best friend
you know I'd do anything for you
my love
let nothing come between us
my love for you is strong and true
Am I in heaven here or am I...
at the crossroads I am standing
So now you're sleeping peaceful
I lie awake and pray
that you'll be strong tomorrow and we'll
see another day and we will praise it
Why? Because it reminds me of a certain night, and it is that night that my body remembers the moment I hear the first tune. Bodies are strange that way. Hearts, too. It reminds me a moment I held a woman in my arms, and I watched her sleep, and I made a promise. I didn't break that promise. I died for her, or rather, the person who I was died for her, and it was - all in all - a very slow and painful death, which took from me everything, but slowly, oh, so slowly until I was empty.

I took the hits, I took the pain, I took it all.

And obviously, my iTunes had to jump to that very song just a few minutes ago. I should have deleted it, a long time ago. But that is the thing about songs. You cannot unlearn them, not the good ones, anyway, and in my case, you cannot un-remember. Really sucks, that. I have that. And it sneaks up on my more often than not. Perfect recall. I could describe you that night, down to the wet spot by the couch that came from a glass of white wine that spilled on it. I could desribe you the ornaments on the Japanese paravent that was against the wall of her living room, and the little imperfection that was like a crack in reality. The kitchen was semi-open, and the frame was without door(s). A few months later I would dip her there, and hit my head against the wall, but not letting her go, not letting her fall, slowly and gently letting her slide out of my arms and onto the floor before I dropped to my knees next to her. Somewhere in Missouri.

There comes a time when you can't do it anymore.

Hold on, I mean.

And yet, why do we do it? Because the alternative, perhaps, is unthinkable.