Ludovico Einaudi - Fly
(it's dark here. shun light.
just a few rhythmic piano notes. they’re in minor.
they get company. but these newer notes only emphasize. they do nothing but sculpt the negative space around this stretched-out, claustrophopic solitude. they repeat themselves. vicious and tender.
we hope light. and somewhere, light is breathing. telling us we’re there. telling us we're here. we’re not forgotten. here, in the darkness. where we shun ourselves. where we must be winter.
but no note rises. they fall, all of them. fall, and disappear. until nothing is left. and that empty residue embraces us.
just a brief flicker of hope again. there is an echo? there is an echo.
a repeat. a rhythm.
how can we think of the sky when all we see is this? when all we see is a room within a room within a room?
i hide between these notes, look for a place, a niche, where i cannot be found by myself any more. but the notes disappear. they fall. fall and disappear.
somewhere, someone is screaming. muffled voices. how i wish to be inside my head. how i am inside my head. everything becomes an echo. everything becomes momentum. but there is no beginning. only the echo. only the momentum.
only the scream now; only.
and i think. hope. yes, these are notes in minor. but we’re not forgotten.)