silent_songbird: (Angelica Danae)
2010-03-25 05:58 am

How does that song go? Sunrise, sunset, swiftly fly the years....

Too swiftly. Even for one such as I. A century has past while I walk the earth as this creature someone made in a moment of careless anger--made and discarded as easily as one would rid themselves of an unwanted child spawned from a meaningless union. I have risen, only to fall and rise again, countless times, driven by the animal's base instinct to survive at all costs. I have seen the world change around me; music and art and science ticking over to match the new millennium and the people who embraced it with eagerness tempered by an innate fear of the unknown. I have bowed to this change myself, like a shy flower unfurling out of my Victorian-era calyx to become what they call a "modern woman". I have done well in this century. I am adapting. I am existing.

I am alone.

And I miss him.

Strange, isn't it? Over a century has past me by and that fact--that hole in my un-beating heart left by someone who no doubt does not even remember my face, let alone my name--remains the only true constant in my existence. So here I am. Alone and missing him for yet another night, in yet another city. While he is... not...?

Je t'aime, mon corbeau. Amour de mon éternité. Trouvez-moi.
silent_songbird: (Default)
2010-03-01 04:44 am

We measure our lives in lyrics...

Perhaps it seems little odd for someone like me to have an interest in the popular music of the time. Naturally after that someone meets me, all is explained... including but not limited to my voracious appetite for this ageless form of communication. As we all know, music is the food of love, tames the savage beast, the universal language and other cliches. In my case, it has literally ruled my existence. My first lover and no doubt my last, the one who will never leave me, never betray me, and like myself, never die. Is it any wonder I pay so much attention to it, regardless of genre?

So of course when I find a song that applies to myself, my past, my future, or my situation I have to steal it. As of late my interest in the group of wandering bards who call themselves "Stabbing Westward" (charming name, non?) has grown. They pen quite a few very apt poems-set-to-music that I simply must draw attention to.

Here, for instance, is a simple little song that strikes deep. Despair in 16 lines or less.

I'm drowning in nothing
Nothing real
Nothing left
Nothing
I'm losing myself
Sinking deeper down

Silently leaving
This behind
Nothing left but me

I'm hating myself
Hating myself
Everyone hates me now

Everyone has changed
Everything has changed
Everyone has changed
But me


You see? Apt. Painfully so.

I wonder if this band would mind a visit.
silent_songbird: (Default)
2010-01-18 10:20 pm

I hardly know what to say....

Not that I am particularly loquacious in person, unless I find myself enamored of the topic, but... yes. I have arrived on the World Wide Web at last, after threatening to do so for a good while. What will happen now that I am here remains to be seen.

I find myself disposed to be gregarious tonight. Perhaps this is a result of the unfortunate and involuntary solitude I have experienced of late. Dread distance when you choose a career, reader, for it more than anything else will take you away from everything you hold dear. Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder did not include our kind in that assessment, for not only does it make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart break. Oh, just a little, and the cracks can be patched up if one moves quickly enough. But underneath the sticking-plasters the flaws remain. Contrary to popular opinion--and the media that likes to propogate it--we are not indestructible. We hurt. We bleed. We even die. Yes, of course, the stakes, the crosses, the garlic, the blasted sun, all that can injure us, and does. But that only destroys the shell. The Soul the Church denies us can die long before our flesh falls to ash in the slayer's hands. That is the only death that matters in the end.

Pray you are never the cause of such pain. We are denied Confession too, you know.