The perfect song

I’m going insane right now. I think. I alternatively feel like I want to cry and sleep, and my ear is in so much pain it is magnified by the cabin fever. It seems like because I never get any other kind of fever (the last time I had a temperature was fifteen years ago when I had malaria and it had me sucking on ice cubes) cabin fever is just ten times worse for me and makes me want to die. I’m just so so sad. And I’m looking for the perfect song. My last roommate in college used to say she liked to listen to sad music when she was depressed as a way to highlight her mood, and she would go to good old Elliot Smith.

When I’m so happy I’m going to burst, I sift through my music looking for the song that will perfectly express what I feel and I never find it. So when I’m no longer so happy that I’m tingling all over, and suffering from all that contained joy, I think, clear-headedly, “I need to get me some of that throw your shoes in the river, and laughter echoing in the valley, long hair you don’t have flying in the wind happy music for another time like that”.

Maybe I will never find the perfect song because the perfect song is always different because the feeling is always different, and the moment is always different.

Maybe I’ll never find that song because I like words so much. Every time I feel this way, words just stream out to tell me what it is I am feeling and how the world shifts around me, imperceptibly and oh-so profoundly at the same time. As if the world was doing one long dance with me, that edges away from the last feeling towards the next, and is perfectly in the present. Words sway with me. I know them, at least. Music is just something I want as a soundtrack, but I guess my life isn’t a movie. Or maybe words are just my form of music. I life my life so silently most of the time, the hundreds of albums I have stay dormant for days and weeks on end.

I just need to get out of the flat. I am really suffering from this cabin fever. I am not seeing anything clearly anymore, it’s almost like near-far-sighted blindness. Everything is so blurry close, far and around that you just can’t distinguish anything. I’m taking it all personally. The dry toast, the spilled sesame seeds, the sodium-packed soups, the lack of fruit. Each inanimate thing is another proof of my inadequacy.

I need to get back to work. Occupy my mind. Save myself.


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