That song is my jam. That song is my peanut butter and jelly on bread. Filling, delicious, satisfying, even exciting. That song is the bees knees, cucumber, pickles, radioactive radio access. That song is electric, that song gets me on fire, that song is everything – Eloquent and vague, mysteriously specific. That song is it. That song is creamed corn on Thanksgiving, watermelon in the hot summer sun with no juice dribbling down the chin. Nothing to wipe away. It’s all deliciousness in my mouth, all the time. Raging winters insulated, every crack and crevice identified. I am buoyant. I am invigorated by it. It is CPR when I can’t breathe. The lifeblood of my future ancestors. That song is the answer. No monotonous droning cadence, but a whole expressive passage. Better than Vivaldi’s Spring on ecstasy (not that I would know anything about that, Mom). But it’s better than Life, it’s the art of Living. I want loud speakers throbbing with the melody that must’ve been magically pulled from the air, from the breeze, like a Disney animation that of course, made sense. That song is everything. That song is legitimate. That song blossoms as a flower grown in underground pavement, seeking its air from a crack. All encompassing. I’ll just stay in love with this song. Until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I come to the realization that, “oh yeah, I need people too. I need socialization and talking and not to the brick wall echo chamber that is the internet”. But this song for now, satiates me. It soothes my brain. I welcome it to stay as long as it likes. It’s just hard to not get excited when there is understanding, when there is interlocking of eyes, when there is fascination and attraction of a rhythm, melody, and words. Wishing I could scrape off a scintilla of that and apply it to my own. Like a paint chip of a glorious color that you can’t find anymore. The song that makes your heart drop if it gets interrupted and the plug gets pulled. The moan of disappointment by the audience, by the crowd. Crowded house party, plenty of drinks, plenty of promissory notes – The delivery of hangovers bright and early tomorrow morning. These are not carried by storks, but by dehydration and poison imbalances. Liver protests and digestive disasters. Mix ‘n’ match diatribe. Grapes become jelly, which is like a hungover brain. Not sustainable, no way.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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