My bones are cracking under the burden of change. I’m running away, which is futile, as it always catches up with me. In the forests of his vocal cords, in the illusion of safety, I’m hanging around long enough for my legs to run on automatic, for my head to bend in confrontation with branches and drumsticks.
But I’m dying, his voice is loud enough. I didn’t get far, and I’m already in a dream. Or am I the dream? Am I haunted or am I the ghost? Before I can even make up my mind, it changes again, which forces me to seek solace in his sulky baritone before the forests burst into flames. There’s not one moment of safety or seclusion, I’m constantly surrounded by disorganised loops of change, jumping around, eyes and strings open, either very high or sober enough to know what they’re doing to me
It was not my choice to become this. My footsteps gave out the story, but I was cornered into running in riddles and rhythms, and my head spins, so the melody does, too.
I only wanted to get out of here, I only tried to pick up the breadcrumbs that art set out for me. My truth does not contain serenity or reflection, it is layers and layers of mud and rusty leftovers. It is a comedown without the high, hence no climax. The song is its own climax, it will burn through your brain like the forest. You will burn and burn, until you can’t walk straight, until you succumb to tears and accept the unacceptable – that you may be just like me.