While my mother waters plants, My father loads his guns. He says, "Death will give us back to God, Just like the setting sun, returns to the lonesome ocean." - "At the Bottom of Everything" by Bright Eyes
I read this somewhere, I remember now. They said your music was for girls with choppy neon hair that sat in bars reading Kerouac and smoking clove cigarettes. The kind of girls you’d read about in a Murakami novel. Quirky girls.
Alas, to my fourteen year old self’s dismay, I was abysmally ordinary. Bored and impressionable, but perspicacious in the way that most unassuming adolescents are. And yet, I found Fevers and Mirrors, an auricular anthology documenting your undiluted anguish. I was thrilled to the bone. Addicted to your pain.
The songs weren’t pretty. They didn’t have gratifying nuances or prolific filigree. But they reached the cold vacuum in my chest nonetheless, possessing me.
And so began the affair – un-romantic, but not loveless. Naked, fierce, and easy.
Through hate and humiliation and poetry, you taught me that there was beauty in insignificance, in pain, in desperacy. An intrinsic sense of understanding settled in my belly, consuming lyrics, metaphors, and melodies.
Sometimes, if I paused for too long,
breathing and bathing in your craft mid-song,
it devastated me.
at the very bottom of everything,
I don’t know if I love your music anymore, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Either way,
it’s a part of my being.