Songs as sentiments as soul-searching practice. Music as medicine as methodical exploration. The words and the wise, the way in which they come together to tell the story of someone else, all the while imbuing our own narratives with fluctuations we’d forgotten, passed on, tried to forget and tried to dispel. The oldest story ever told, of light verses dark, told and told again but never quite the same, never through the same pair of eyes, never with the same amount of weight as before, or after.
Eleven minutes and five seconds of absorbing testament, miniscule reflections and mighty afflictions, roads explored and examined, conclusions reached and then forgotten again in the fog of it all. Repeat, repeat, repeat until the story stays the same, until the intonations have clarity and form their own shapes, neatly packaged, easily told, easily digested, and then the tiny diversion that sends them all tumbling back down, to be lost and misplaced, mistaken for strangers by the same person who crafted them, who breathed life in to them so that they could form a song and a time and a place.
I love her family. I love her family and I love that we can teach ourselves to forget.