BREAKING THE YEARLINGS: CLACKETY-CLACK-CLACK

PRESS PLAY TO READ (written to music)

I don’t think it’s too obvious, unless you’re close enough to hear it, but I’m obsessive.

I’ll stumble upon it from a variety of networked and tenuously slim threads—a snippet of text, a whispered idea, a brief, offhand mention—and I will grasp it to death. I will put it on repeat. I will open it up, finger through the drums, investigate the thing, and claw from the inside snare-by-snare, bursting out.

You’ve to dissect the beast to understand the interior workings—to comprehend the thing.

I will research the words. I will infatuate the sentiments. I will force my heartbeats to clack with the drums. My eyes roll to the licks, my arms flow to the organs, my feet pound the street so fucking hard that I will make the drums sound out in real life, in one almighty, glorious fit.

I will make you love it, if you’re willing to hear it.

I listen so hard, so oft, so fervently that I’ve forgotten all other songs. I want to just be it. I just want to burst a lung singing it. I don’t want breath, I don’t want to keep battling on, I just want to be a beat. A riff you couldn’t possibly forget. A note that you can barely deduce but it’s with you all the time. A harmony that couldn’t possibly do anything but own you.

I let it consume me. I haunt my ears and thoughts with it. I beset it upon myself. I am nothing but a dramatisation of what’s making waves in my ears. And I wish this could be a feeling shared, that you could be in me, through my thoughts, for the consumption. If you even had a piece, a shred, a fingertip of this feeling, we’d be dancing in the street, climbing walls, scaling trees, standing on hilltops in the wind, fucking wild in the fields, and smiling so wide our faces would be nothing but lips and teeth.

I’m coloured with this obsession. I’m handicapped to listen thirty times a day. I’m thinking in beats, moving in rhythms, and talking in tune. I’m not really hearing anything beyond it. And once I’m finished with it, drained it of all possible dreams, I’ll find another one to place in its stead.

I don’t think it’s too obvious, unless you’re close enough to hear it through the headphones and through my skin, but I’m obsessive.