whatiwas

What I think about when you let me come inside you. The song in question is "I Want Wind To Blow" by the Microphones.

I listened to this song for the first time on a boombox in a building on a college campus no one cares about except for me, in a room cluttered with equipment some people know how to use and posters and pictures of bands and events some people care about. I was almost alive then, almost, and this song was enough to hook me into this album and never let me go.

My feet feel cold and soft on the linouleum, moving back and forth to keep the pins-and-needles sensation from creeping in, the frigid floor starting that burn, that nonsensically warm feeling that comes in the early stages of a deep chill, reminding me of a month ago, waking up incinerating and yet shivering in the air of a room whose temperature couldn't possibly match mine. The towels soaked in water seared too as they clung to my skin, they felt like socks in shoes after a long run in the snow. It's been months since I've raced in the snow, a memory made hazier by the fact that I never cast my gaze from my feet. Truthfully, the sculpted waves of white were always too bright for me, even under street and moon light. I didn't need my eyes to deduce the lesson, however: there is no searing heat without exquisite cold, and both of these things are so alive they make everything they touch as dead as paper.

May you never be too warm or too cool, may you soar through the air connected to either extreme, breathing hot and breathing chilled and having them both be the same and not oppositional, may you never explode when you go from one to the other.