The hazy morning sun is shining in my eyes. I’m travelling in my sealed cocoon, cut off from the noise around me. My headphones are pressed tightly into my ears, submerging me in the sweetest music. My head is filled with the singer’s words — his every breath as clear as crystal, every cracked note and frail break in his voice almost too much to bear. His fingers scratch beautiful arpeggios from his battered old acoustic guitar — the guitar on which the varnish was slowly being rubbed off the back of the neck, the guitar with the threadbare strap. I listen to these songs, remembering how they moved me when I first heard them — a rainy autumn night a few years ago, myself and a handful of other people in a friend’s living-room. Whatever happened to some of those people? The words he sings make more sense to me now than they did back then, and it saddens me that I now understand his lyrical concerns almost too well. While some things have become clearer, a great deal else has become far more confusing. I can’t pretend to understand everything, even though I’m supposed to be older and therefore wiser.
I want to keep listening, just for a few minutes more. Maybe I missed something in his words, and all will suddenly be revealed in a blinding flash of light if I remain in my sound cocoon, In here, I don’t have to think of anybody or anything else — it’s just me and the music.