—-“Is it her singing that enchants us or is it not rather the solemn stillness enclosing her frail little voice?” -Franz Kafka
I know the place he visits…those melodies. Songs like children that make sure you never forget your heart.
I’ve tangled with them, led others to wrestle with them…let them run lose in streets…bare… with lovers and lost loves, even ones who harm you as they love you so deep that it seems you bleed internally.
For them. You do.
This I know…
Once a song enters you, you’re not responsible for the havoc or desire it creates.
I watch old themes take him.
Not down, not up, but into the sphere the singer knows and she knows this only when she’s singing.
She is Josephine? Amália? Their children?
Yes, but no.
They’re in all of us who have touched hearts…ran with them and away from them.
That’s the closest of times… when we’re all singers, runners, damned lovers.
Lucky to have so much damned heart, unrequited to the point of passion…
Then compassion. The heart’s last look at itself.
That child. That melody.