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oakandashIn the middle of his second night, awake and restless, Willy sits on the edge of his bed with his guitar in his hands. Music soothes him; it always has, either with or without an audience. His fingers run across the frets and the sound of the guitar played unplugged -- without electricity -- is soft and lulling. It's a rhythmic piece he plays, his own spin on Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes and tonight, he's not singing along. He's letting the guitar do that all by itself.
But he thinks the lyrics.
Love, I get so lost sometimes.
Right.
Days pass, and this emptiness fills my heart... and he wonders what the point of it is, what the point of any of it is. He wonders what she wants of him, and what the point of anything is if not to learn and to grow and to expand the view of one's world. He knows the point is not to try to become something that one isn't, but does that mean one's not supposed to admire those who are different? Whose lives seem somehow bigger, richer, far more grand in some small but significant way? To him, it seems something worth seeking and yes, sacrifices always have to be made: there's no knowledge without sacrifice. But what's a reasonable price to pay for knowledge?
Is it worth this banishment? Is it worth this enforced solitude? Nightly on Earth he went home: always, even if only for an hour but here he can't do that. He knows he can't because he tried and his usual ways of getting home, returning to family, fail him here, pin him to this enforced solitude, this prison sentence. How long was it before another living breathing being showed up? He's not sure: he only knows a day's passed since he did see anyone. He's not sure what this lesson is supposed to be teaching him.
A long time ago on Earth, a woman named Billie Holiday sang a song called Strange Fruit. It's not a happy song but it's compelling; he sets Peter Gabriel aside for the moment to contemplate the way people have always, always told their stories through music. Whether happy or sad, heartbreaking or heartwarming, inspirational or distressing, they've told stories through music. It's a long tradition in his family as well, but they seem to do the thing differently. The song beneath his fingertips changes to the one he's thinking of now, without the songstress's soulful voice. Just the notes, just the music.
Without words, things tell different stories.
He can't go home. For the first time in his life, he can't return home.
His cousin's displeasure with him must be huge.
But he thinks the lyrics.
Love, I get so lost sometimes.
Right.
Days pass, and this emptiness fills my heart... and he wonders what the point of it is, what the point of any of it is. He wonders what she wants of him, and what the point of anything is if not to learn and to grow and to expand the view of one's world. He knows the point is not to try to become something that one isn't, but does that mean one's not supposed to admire those who are different? Whose lives seem somehow bigger, richer, far more grand in some small but significant way? To him, it seems something worth seeking and yes, sacrifices always have to be made: there's no knowledge without sacrifice. But what's a reasonable price to pay for knowledge?
Is it worth this banishment? Is it worth this enforced solitude? Nightly on Earth he went home: always, even if only for an hour but here he can't do that. He knows he can't because he tried and his usual ways of getting home, returning to family, fail him here, pin him to this enforced solitude, this prison sentence. How long was it before another living breathing being showed up? He's not sure: he only knows a day's passed since he did see anyone. He's not sure what this lesson is supposed to be teaching him.
A long time ago on Earth, a woman named Billie Holiday sang a song called Strange Fruit. It's not a happy song but it's compelling; he sets Peter Gabriel aside for the moment to contemplate the way people have always, always told their stories through music. Whether happy or sad, heartbreaking or heartwarming, inspirational or distressing, they've told stories through music. It's a long tradition in his family as well, but they seem to do the thing differently. The song beneath his fingertips changes to the one he's thinking of now, without the songstress's soulful voice. Just the notes, just the music.
Without words, things tell different stories.
He can't go home. For the first time in his life, he can't return home.
His cousin's displeasure with him must be huge.
