IMPRESSIONS IV — Lord Huron’s ‘The Night We Met’
Link to the song here
Wailing!
It’s a symphony of despair. A language of intense pain where the body and soul unite in a dance of anguish. As the sorrow takes hold of your body, the heart, that delicate sentinel of sentiments, bears the burden. Its rhythm, once steady, now trembles, laboring under the echo of melancholy that courses through its chambers. Its song, once harmonious, now sounds like decrepit minstrels of a dissonant quake, merely a tuneless lamentation.
Wailing!
The eyes of the body, windows to the soul and witness of the spirit, now becomes a veritable lake of tears; their brimming reservoirs overflowing, cascading with a torrential force. Within the tear ducts, delicate conduits of the human visage, a labyrinth of sorrow unfurls. Tiny rivulets meanders through the channels, etching paths upon the landscape of grief. With every teardrop that falls, a poignant story is whispered upon the cheeks, tracing the contours of a soul laid bare.
Wailing!
It strives to align the boundless turmoil and inexhaustible crisis of our distressing existence with the limited reservoir of our teardrops. As we approach the brink of our resilience and recognize the depletion of tears to alleviate the agony, it starts to gnaw at the very essence of our suffering. It becomes a futile quest for solace, particularly when we know that we have lost something that can never be recovered. It’s like scratching an itch until we lose our hands.
*
There are few corpses that can induce the deepest tinge of sorrow as profoundly as the one of our former love and beloved. The sorrow descends like an unforeseen tempest, striking with the force of a thunder. It heralds its arrival with a somber haze, cloaking the skies in melancholic clouds, while you anticipate nothing more than a gentle drizzle. But when it strikes – accompanied by memories, it strikes – with regrets. When/if we attempt to flee, the ground beneath us crumbles into pathetic caves littered with shattered fragments of unrealized fantasies and missed opportunities. The more we seek solace from the gloom, the more it ensnares us, thrusting us relentlessly from one realm to another, as if they are ashamed of us.
In one realm, a dense forest emerges, where our regrets entwine around us like a constricting python. In another, an expansive ocean engulfs, its colossal whales swallowing us whole, only to cast us back out in a tumultuous expulsion. Through these trials, we endure, yearning for respite. The only place of succor, the single sanctuary of peace and the pinnacle of solace, a celestial heaven etched with serenity will be the night or day we met them.
*
I still remember the moments. How can I forget the feeling and sensation when Love stepped into mine as I stepped into hers? I once built great and mighty cathedrals in the mighty name of Love. I once hid my self away in its cocoon dreaming of lofty heights. The fucking arrogance? Now those great and mighty buildings are replaced by ruins of things that could have been. I have deleted the pictures. I have deleted the chats but I can’t delete the memories. The memories aren’t even soothing anymore. Just haunts and taunts. Shrills, shrieks, and screeches. Sometimes last year, I woke up to see them clump together to form an invisible demonic weight on my chest. They wouldn’t leave unless I offered an offering of grief. So I paid them in tears.
Sometimes when I am not afflicted by the gnomes and leprechauns that abide in the ruins of a broken heart, I close my eyes and journey to that moment. That moment when I was oblivious of what fate had in store for me. That moment when I thought my Love would last forever. That moment when I had all of love and not most and definitely not none, I keep myself in that moment. I stop time. I close my eyes. I inhale. I exhale.
