That opening guitar riff fills my ears, not a moment before nostalgia holds a blade to my throat. A honeyed horizon and Isaak’s voice coaxes something primal from the pit of my stomach. Time curls its fingers around me, luring me back into the past, stripping away what little sanity I have left.
And the world doesn’t mind that I am not the same person I was when our eyes first met. Time carried me here, rearranged me into someone unfamiliar to the girl in the memories being summoned. The years kept stacking themselves. Lovers faded faster than they appeared. Homes collapsed into meaningless sculptures of rubble. Even the tyres still turn, faithful to the road, indifferent to where my mind lingers. Everything keeps building itself while I’m stuck peering backwards.
Life didn't hesitate, the orchestra continued its melody and I slipped into another rhythm. And now I drive along roads that follow alpine mountains, that know where I’m going better than I do. The view is offensive in its beauty. It focalises my insignificance, smirks at my smallness and morality in comparison to its permanence. Reminds me of all that has already passed me by.
Isaak’s words drift somewhere beyond my thoughts, until they meet my ear again: face the world on your own. I’m forced back into the moment. For once I’m not trying to hold myself together. I am alone and nothing is missing.
My fingers trace the wheel of my ‘84 cruiser. The cold air teases at my arm resting out the window, begging for me to play with it. Eventually I give in, dancing my fingers through it; making waves in the wind with my palm. All that’s missing is the burn of a Marlboro between my lips, and its thin chain of smoke marrying the exhaust cloud tailing me. The flash of a sign warning of a sharp drop ahead catches me. Something reckless brushes up against my mind.
I swallow and feel the sting of that phantom blade draw blood. I don’t pull away, daring nostalgia to slit my throat. The sky, that careless minx, bleeds on to the world and into my eyes. The road disappears into the curve ahead, and I bask in the yawning of the canyon beyond it.
I let my hand leave the wheel—
life will go on.
—amber.
I loosen my grip and nothing falls apart,
so I let go… and the world doesn’t end.
This piece felt like indulgence, a little reminder as to why I love writing. Life Will Go On inspired this essay as I was driving home through the mountains. The little playlist below was the soundtrack to my writing and refining of that inspiration. Sweet listening my loves x
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