Song Series

Lean On

Do you recall, not long ago

We would walk on the sidewalk

Innocent, remember?

All we did was care for each other.

I was your prince. Your man in dream, the one who re-appeared again and again in your midday reveries. I would hold your hands, and led you, down the steps of the clouds, to the road treaded with aromatic petals. Sky would continuously signal romance, and gushes of wind would confer the flowers upon you luxuriated hair. I would then frolic around unguidedly by your company; we would then grin and smile for our own naivety.

But they were the sweet days. We lived under perpetual scrutiny. We lived in fear of our parents, of our future, of the world. We were no longer the offsprings of the warm night, in whose buxom we could be bold and young. We mingled, convulsed, became victimised to the horrific encroachment of society upon us. We parted with the sweet dreams, with all the childlike pathways and colored garments, and stepped into a dichotomised world of phobias.

We were berated. They heaped scorn on us. They filled us with terror to such an extreme that we were drained to our bones. We went from bad to worse, and to worst. The sky reeked of ghastly odors, resonated with cacophonous thunder, fully covering in black. Flight of stair turned to flight of horror, and romance turned into secrecy.

We were desolated in our battle against the world. Both you and I, we had our own monsters to fight. A step forward they took, a step backward we took, tremulous, stuck-up. And in that precious moment, we held. We embraced the warmth of humanity, of celestiality. We escaped our leviathan miscreations through shared traits of human love and human vehemence. We would only hold on to let go. Only by then could we rekindle the inner fire, could we light up the world of fanciful ambience in our daily dreams.

Blow a kiss, fire a gun

All we need is somebody to lean on

In dreams we caressed, and in nightmares we cooperated. We lived through the ups and downs of our unrealistic life by dint of compassion. Should we live in our dramatised reveries, we would kiss, hug, make love, rejoicing in the peace we never would have impugned its existence. We would while away the nights in search of unicorns and double rainbows, and magically transform the days into visits of the Neverland and practices of the mind-soothing symphony. And should we live in consternation, we would take out our guns, and shoot. Shoot until the most bestial body crept in sight of us mediocre. Shoot until the most hideous witch flew her mop away within earshot of us trembling. Shoot until our last stamina fled from us, desisted from extending its working session for the height of our spirits was such we would fear ourself. I could have killed a man, assassinated a personage, decimated a species, upheld the flow of time, in accompaniment of you, my dear beloved, the one on whom I could lend a shoulder, I could lean, and the one with whom I share my dreary body with.

As time passes by, at present I wonder if those moments were mainly about reveries. Excruciating as those ominous gushes might have been, they were the moments in which we lived our hearts out for the other. I plumbed those depths with you, yet those depths were not that deep in actual fact, considering how things should be functioning now that they do not. As the waves roll over, will you still be there by my side if things go awry? Will there still be adventure times when we play the song of peace or fight the battle of war, or will things drag on unflavored like a bowl of soup you forget to put salt in? Will the roads still be treaded with petals, or mere pieces of broken tiles pierce through my fragile, worn-out skin? Will you still hold my hands in yours when they vituperate me, or even us?

It might happen this way, in fact. We now live in fear, not of the world, but of ourselves, of our own self-appointed insipidity. Nights turn into long waits to no avail. Days are surrounded by tints of lost faith. The wind is still there, but is our love, our commitment, our future the same?

But the nights are long

Longing for you to come home

All around the wind blows

We would only hold on to let go

I cannot answer this by myself, for if the tides of life have pushed us here, they can push us to anywhere else they can. Sitting cornered, I exasperate my choices I made without contemplation and consideration of the future. I repeat myself, and repeat my hankerings. However, if I have conducted such eccentricities, would we have been better? The farthest, scariest boundaries we have crossed, but the boundaries of our own we could not, and may never will.