[[ STORMS, BAD MUSIC, MASOCHISM ]]

"I'm lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you 'til it hurts..."

-Air Supply

I have been glued to my chair for about two hours now and am still listening to all these good old music. To label them good old is a bad idea. Every melodramatic line strikes me. Every story they tell makes me play a role in that story and like an Oscar award dreamer, I conceive every emotion that might be felt by that character. From the first few notes, going up to the climax of the song, I ride the waves until the last second of the lifespan of a microcosm that lasts for three and maybe four minutes and exploding not like the Big Bang but a bursting soap bubble. This is pure masochism, listening to hurtful songs and reveling in the ecstasy of soreness.

I thought after writing the previous post, my fingers may rest in serenity. Writing something that leaves too much to imagination doesn't calm the storm. Given a few moments of quiet, the storm gathers strength in the Pacific and like a heap of a thousand dark nimbus clouds; it looms in the horizon scaring the scarecrows on the cornfields of my forehead. No, such storm cannot be fought off now. It has to fall on land and go berserk, raping and humiliating the lowly mud, drowning the vermin and moles. It has to charge like a mad knight ala Don Quixote drunk with a silo of Red Bull or maybe Lipovitan. It has to rampage, hurt everyone on its way, blow by blow until the Red Bull or maybe the Lipovitan is burned out and nothing stirs but a whisper of Zephyrus and a moan from the injured.

Really, can't I fight off this storm?

Really.

Can't I?

I can't.

*Edit. Delete content. Continuation on the next post.*