Here is to The Cure. This freaking band.

For most of my life, I assumed music meant a way of depicting my life, a process of decorating it in some way until I listened to The Cure.

At first, Robert Smith gave me an indescribable sentiment of sharpness and bittersweetness. But through time and several indefatigable attempts of replaying their songs I understood that their music is not about seasoning but healing.

They’ve reasonably changed my life or, at least, the apprehension I had of it.

I remember the very first day I listened to Disintegration; I treasure the color the sky held that day and, overall, I cherish the emotions it gave me. Or when To wish impossible things showed up in my reproduction queue and it instantly gave me goosebumps all over my whole body.

It must be something in his voice, or in the guitar swirlings, or in the anthropomorphic and dark yet enlightening sound they create; but my soul assuredly wouldn’t be able to survive without them.