Imagine a sound so soft it’s almost deafening. The pain is incredible but seductively transfixing; everything around you has absorbed into one pulsating rhythm. Your heart is no longer yours; it belongs on the dance floor. Whose dance floor is that? You decide.

Even when the beat has evaporated out of life, you are always there, etching away like a hand to a drum. Each hit, soft and gradually getting harder, stronger, louder, faster, it is more intense than the last; I’m in a hypnotised state, the ones that were so common with the psychedelic sound of the sixties. However, I’m not in the sixties, I’m here, now, breathing, living, but decaying to the pain that you produce.

You don’t know it yet, but your number one on my chart; you haven’t sold a single record, but that doesn’t matter here. My ears are bleeding from the continuous loop I have you on, and even when I do change the record, nothing is in comparison. I often wonder what is it that has me this transpired, this lost in time. I’m suffering as the result, this is an aboulia; an aboulia that has never been cured. How do you erase a sound that was never heard? I don’t know, and I can’t ask for the answer; my tongue is lost too.

My tongue is its own story entirely; an organ that worked perfectly up until now. I took it for granted when I had full control over my speech, and now I’m bitter with admission to my own downfall. It was when I allowed your song; the one that brings calm to the storm of my life, to be heard aloud. I should have never allowed your music, your notes to be repeated for others to hear; but with my oxymoron of emotion, self control had barely the faintest mark on me. It was at that monumental point I was struck; the power of love has muted me. The power of my love rumbles like a penetrating bass within me, the treble is too low to quash it, has now been silenced by your power. Like the “off” button on an amplifier, I am silenced, and the strings of my mind, body, soul and heart can not be heard; I pluck harder and harder at them; but nothing. Nothing is all have, this but with the exception of you; but then again who needs to speak when music is the soundtrack to your life?

Even after I have pleaded with my body to free itself from the prison it has encased itself in, I’m still not in control; my dance floor is you. You’re the DJ, you’re the orchestra, the composer, the conductor; the music you produce is the fluid to me. Without you osmosis would be impossible, as would respiration and life itself.
What is it that I have to do to overcome your power? My head bleeds at your beauty, my eyes are fixated on the body you have empowered, and my heart is set on yours, so why do you punish me? Medicine has failed to relieve the pain, and my legs have failed to walk away. I don’t know a lot about Greek Mythology, but you’re a Siren; enchanting, beautiful, and dangerous. Like a fish to the bait, you have caught me, and I’m in the freezer waiting to be fried, served up with chips and eaten. How ironic would it be that I would be eaten by a late night clubber, hungry and sweaty from the hours swaying, gliding and jumping to the pulse of House Music?

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I remember now the first time I heard your voice, from the very beginning I was in a trance, like the thousands who flock to Ibiza. I was weary at first, how can someone I barely know have such a penetrating dominance over me? Then I was strong, yes I heard the song, it was almost a whisper at first, and I denied it; you were out of my reach, out of bounds, a thought of you couldn’t enter my head, I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow it. As time proceeded you weakened me. Your volume had been turned up, your bass levels rising, and the playlist to your jukebox extending. Never before had I felt as exposed as I do now; I’m fully clothed but naked within your presence. Your timbre has ripped away the seams of my shirt; your glee has torn at my trousers. The finale is far from near, the Sonata is barely finished and I feel I’ve already had that climax. My life is a Glissando when I’m out of your presence, the safety I feel although drowned in pain, and in an impromptu silence is the happiest I feel all day. The key of your song changes to Major; no longer am I doomed with flats and sharps, but bright, enlightening melodies.

My ears are still flooded with the sound that you are flooding within me; where is the pause button, the stop button, the mute button? Of course, humans don’t come with remote controls, and even if you did would I have the strength to stop you? Who walks away from love? Who walks away from the safety net, and asks to be exposed to all the dangers of the mysterious world? A fool would, and am I fool; well I don’t think so, but I was foolish enough to end up here. Silenced, crazy and gasping for peace in a warless universe you have created. You’re playing me like an instrument, a drum, a guitar, a flute or oboe; you have me in your clasp. You’ve pitched me to your perfect tuning; you’re playing the chords to the dramatic sequence of my life. What can I do? I breathe in the harmonics, and flow with the arpeggio of your smile. There is nothing I can do now, you have in-scripted your name on me, it’s etched neatly for all to be seen; you own me now, and gladly you step down from the stage.

The music hasn’t ended, but your concert is now moving to a quieter venue; from here you will tend to the damage done to my ears, and relieve my tongue. Life will be sweet; I’ll have the taste of you within me, and the back catalogue of the greatest concerto ever heard. Together we will play out the greatest of all sounds, forget Mozart, Beethoven and Bach; you and I are the motif for the unison that our hearts have composed.

Da Capo -

Imagine a sound so soft it’s almost deafening. The pain is incredible but seductively transfixing; everything around you has absorbed into one pulsating rhythm. Your heart is no longer yours; it belongs on the dance floor. Whose dance floor is that? You decide.
The cure to the pain has been found; it appears that the pain was only the confusion of the brain over heart; what I really needed was to tune my internal organs. The body is not an atonal instrument.