There comes a moment in Everyman's life in which love reigns over you like a doomed cloud. You can't choose to run away from it, to leave it waiting at the bar, half a pint of Guinness going flat.
You have to love, an imperative that does not depend on will alone. Everyman imagines possible worlds, a fire in a little farm, chopping woods to keep her warm, joint walks beyond Hyde Park (where "everything is desert", as William Hazlit wrote), arm in arm, keeping her safe from harm, and when away, at that bar, listening to sad music and remembering every dress she ever wore.
But life teaches very hard lessons.
And suddenly it comes to you like lightning: Everyman realizes he does not have to love her anymore.
It is a liberating feeling: it comes with happy, yet profoundly melancholic music, chords and drums and a folky vibe, a sort of barndance track that resembles a fairy tale of heartache and loss. The voice comes deep from the chest, the voice of a bedtime storyteller, older and wise, but also selfconscious and with a sense of irony.
I don't have to love you now if I don't wish to.
One wonders, after listening to this song, if it's at all possible, whether one can say "I don't really love you anymore" truly and sincerely from the heart, and not just out of disappointment, resentment and pain. Love, freedom or doom, one wonders.
Because Everyman walks wounded. Everyman used to read her horoscope every morning at breakfast, until he gave up.
'Cause I don't really love you anymore.
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{This was this blog's 100th post}
1 comment:
I love how you use literature's "Everyman" in your blog entry.
And I love The Magnetic Fields.
Whoo hoo.
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