three different ways

The past comes at me like future shock.

The missed and unrealised then, is the same is the not knowable of tomorrow. It is that that hides just out of reach, beyond the horizon. If we had realised then the seeds we were sowing, then we would have farmed a different crop. If could know of what tomorrow would bring, we would aim for a different lot.

Music is the key. Old music, forgotten music; music discovered again.

All life’s wanderings have to have a soundtrack and whilst the memories might be jangled, the sound track to all our past musings is as clear today as it never was. The music means something; today, perhaps, more than it ever did. We are older now, more conscious of the life we have lived - what we have done or not done, the time we have wasted and the time we could sell for a million dollars a million times over if only we could pin it down, distil and bottle it. And we are aware of what time we have left; still aeons, but we all think we should have done things sooner, or at least by now. Like Fall in love and stay there. Like have children, at the very least one. Like seeing more and worrying less. Like living life to its very core instead of just talking and worrying about it.

We don’t ever realise the songs that will bring us back, the rhythms that will bring us home: A curled, looped beat at the end of a track; a guitar riff and cymbal crash; some forgotten lyric, some transient rhyme. Each has the power to transform and transfer us, now, in real time: today’s date becomes a fallacy as we are transported back to a different reality.

---

This section has been deleted due to over zealous use of vitriol. My apologies to those that have already read the original post; i was not in a good place when i wrote it.

---

She wakes to the sound of a radio in another room. It is quiet but the song is familiar and penetrates her sleep. Her dreams are altered; what was a flying is now falling, what was bliss is now terror. She twists and turns in her sleep; the covers thrash and flail. From a distance, with the early sunlight piercing the shutters like an ill fitted dam, she looks far younger than her actual years; she looks innocent - girl like - her pale blue pyjamas shimmer in the solar glare.

She is wrestling with sleep just as surely as she is being wrested from it. She does not want to wake up.

XxX