Music......

Music, no other thing in my life can transport me the way it does. From the delicate strains of classical pieces, to the ear crushingly loud anger of thrash metal, there is no other thing that can move me the way music does. From a young age, I always felt drawn music, drawn to the passion and the feeling behind it. From singing childish rhymes in the garden, to singing along with my favourite bands from the sweaty, heaving crowd of a concert, I have never felt as alive as in those moments.

I used to be a singer as a child, full of confidence and song. As years past, I lost this confidence, never quite realising what I would be missing. Imagine a bird without song, still able to fly, still beautiful in its own way but lacking that special something that made it complete. I feel like that bird,without song and trapped in cage that has no door. I came to realise, that though I may be without a song of my own, the songs of others would take me on journeys to places I could only dream of. In recent years, I have taught myself to play various instruments in the vain hope of finding my song again. I live in hope that one day it will return to me and fill me with the same delights I remember.

For now I satisfy myself with the output of others, I let the words and the music wash over me and just for an instant, I can see into the worlds of other people, feel their pain and share in their sorrows and joys. In these moments, I am taken to another place: a place somewhat different to the one I occupy. I live for the excitement of opening up a new CD, staring down at the untouched surface of the disc, breathing in the smell of new paper and plastic. Should I read the covers? Appreciate the artwork? No, these things can wait, the music is there waiting for me and like a mythical beast waiting for a fresh virgin to appear on the rocks, I must satisfy my hunger. For me, there is no thrill like that of hearing a new band for the first time. From the opening strains of the first song, to the final notes of the last, the joy I find in these windows into other worlds cannot be matched.

I have no doubt that music shall remain a great passion in my life for many years to come. For this, I am truly grateful, for without passion we are loveless and without love, we are less than we should be.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.

This place, this prison

I take a walk down my street and with a sinking heart and the ever present feeling of disappointment that seems my only friend here, I look around.I spy fallen litter bins and a flurry of activity as the contents race down the street without care. I pause for a moment, watching as they spiral, rising and falling with the wind and I wonder how it would feel to fly away. I look to my left and see the now familiar sight of broken glass,torn newspapers and dirty nappies, piled without thought at the side of the wall. I think about picking them up as I pass but instead I walk on, filled with the knowledge that if I did, there would be another pile there tomorrow to replace it. No cares it seems, as the grass by the roads grows higher every day and the flowers that once bloomed here are choked by the increasing tangle of weeds now carpeting this place.

I hear shouts as I walk, the same tired insults and pleas for attention that are a constant source of noise here. I wonder if anyone else notices the dull, concrete grey that makes up this jungle we call home. Moving unnoticed through the streets, I watch an elderly woman struggle with bags too heavy for her frail hands and I offer to help, spurred on by some desire to make a difference, no matter how small. I recoil at the terror in her eyes, are we all such monsters now that the only reaction I get is fear and suspicion?

I keep walking, my former desire to do a good deed washed away in a sea of despair. The scent here never changes: sour beer, sweat and desperation clinging to every corner. A young mother passes, barely out of her teens and dressed to kill, she looks tired as she tries to tend to the needs of the three young children she has with her. A shout and a slap silences one of them for all of a minute before his wails echo down the street like a car alarm, as annoying as it is repetitive. No one looks or thinks twice, this is the soundtrack for the estate, the song that guides its inhabitant’s home. She pushes onwards, the youngest child dirty but sleeping in its pushchair, holding tightly to the threadbare blanket that barely covers up the bruises that trail across its tiny white legs. No shoes or socks or even trousers, just a blanket to shield it from the wind and the rain that has just started to fall.

A walk past the local shops, takeaway after takeaway lining the street. A pregnant woman hangs out of one of the doorways, puffing on a cigarette, her cut off top barely concealing the weight of her swollen stomach as she drags deeply on the stick of tar she holds in her hand. Does she know what she is doing to the unborn child inside her? Does she care? I turn away, not wanting her to see the look of sadness that crosses my face as she throws down her finished cigarette and reaches into her pocket for another. She leaves the takeaway laden with bags, food enough for all the family. No cookery required here, just a menu and a phone number.

I make a turn and head for home, the light is fading and with growing unease, I quicken my pace so as not to get caught outside after dark. I hear the rumble of motorcycles, the giddy, intoxicated laughter of the local teens, the drink fuelled start of the mating calls that follow and I wonder if there is such a thing as innocence anymore. I pick my way through the carpet of glass and discarded pushchairs, sad reminders of the fact that there is nothing here for me anymore. I find myself staring through a break in the clouds and wonder who watches from the sky, if anyone at all.

I wonder if I’m the only one who dreams of escape or if the strength for such a thing is merely illusion, washed away with the bitter taste of too many beers and not enough love.

A butterfly on a string, dreaming of escape, that would be me.