falling away with you by Muse

Sitting at LAX waiting for my flight to Berlin I hit random on itunes and thats what came up: falling away with you by Muse.
It was weird, it struck a chord with me, I checked the lyrics out and it was so oddly fitting although I dont quite agree with the melancholy, but yes, yes, it indeed exists. I dont know what will happen. our lives just have begun. but i love . i do.


I can't remember when it was good
moments of happiness elude
maybe I just misunderstood

all of the love we left behind
watching the flash backs intertwine
memories I will never find

so I'll love whatever you become
and forget the reckless things we've done
I think our lives have just begun
I think our lives have just begun

and I'll feel my world crumbling,
and I'll I feel my life crumbling
and feel my soul crumbling away
and falling away,
falling away with you

staying awake to chase a dream
tasting the air you're breathing in
I hope I won't forget a thing

promise to hold you close and pray
watching the fantasies decay
nothing will ever stay the same

and all of the love we threw away
and all of the hopes we've cherished fade
making the same mistakes again
making the same mistakes again

and I feel my world crumbling,
and I feel my life crumbling down,
I can feel my soul crumbling away,
and falling away,
falling away with you

all of the love we left behind
watching the flash backs intertwine
memories I will never find
memories I will never find

surrealism

the fog paints everything in shimmering silky grey. palmtrees lose their pathetic vacation look, they gain degrees of mysteriousness, of history, stories, whispered in the wind of old days.
The fake gas fueled fire flickers and flimmers in the cold. Those logs will never grow old, they will never burn down, they will never give birth to anyone or anything. They will hardly keep me warm or sooth me with crackeling noises. They have a long but hard life. Nothing I ever would wish for.
A song appears through the mist, it might be an old soul song, about love, about now or never, or the doors, screaming into the arriving dawn.
It is amazing how many layers of memories a song can carry on its waves. Ah, how it manages to sway me back into strange, old emotions, old truths that changed their faces so many times, that transformed from the excitement of newness and youth into the forlorn whispering of the old.

It's as if surrealism is taking over reality in strange flickering and fickle sounds....painted, no, smashed against a dirty, plain, grey fogwall. with frogs jumping all over


When the music is over....turn out the lights....(Jim Morrison)

and so it was...

like little miniature marching bands in my head, marching through my ear, into my head, winding up and up and up, echoing and vibrating losening up buried memories of long gone excitements. the cracks, the twists, the noises, the echoes, the strings, the dark obscure nights in some Berlin basement somewhere somewhen somehow amazing.
drum fills in rows like crushing shorelines, one after the other like precious beads on a necklace that i weave through my hair. the almost slow motioned movements of swaying hips, fluttering hands like caught up birds, looking for a way out, a way to follow the ever dictating beats and fills and waves and sounds clashing and splattered all over the floor. the dj's bend over the machines, creating powerful patterns, only known to them, translated by our bodies, our movements. hair flying through the air, smoke slowly filling the room with intrinsic formulas. snaking their way through sweating bodies, heavily pumping lungs, almost still life like people who froze in a moment of death, induced by borderline substances that beam you right there and back. smiles hanging in the air like a sleepy willow in a forgotten misty land and empty eyes staring, searching, losing, rolling back in dull sound filled heads.
i always thought that the sounds were utterly boring when lying on a bed all by yourself. searching hands could translate them well enough but best was and is, undeniably, the power of those soundwaves running through your veins, weaving secrets back and forth through you into the room, bumping off other people, dancing a mystical dance of forgetting and death.

and so it was,
in the mornings, when we could come back, resurfacing, coming from the dark, the sun was always so bright, and the birds filled the thundering silence.