Melodies spark neurons, which trigger memories, which then floods my head with remnants of what was. It's sort of like walking down the street, or through the mall and you catch a scent that reminds you of someone you once loved.
My feelings on Loney, Noir by Loney Dear will never change. I'll always remember sitting on a wooden floor of a house built in the 1920's with no furniture around me trying to let go of a state of mind that I couldn't accept but couldn't deny. Those songs by no means answered any of my prayers. My demons were as violent as ever, but while I was inside of these songs for 34 minutes, my wounds were soothed and cooled. I haven't bought an album of his since. I haven't wanted to.
When things comfort you, you don't want to find them as changed, because that would mean that time has moved on and the comfort may be gone. I've always had a hard time dealing with the progression of time. I would go as far to say that I've been bound by the "what if" and "should have's" when the simple truth is that they no longer exist. Whatever moments I should have seized when they were presented no longer live. Their ghosts beckon me to be ready, as not to create more ghosts of minutes past. Maybe that's why memories can ring louder than bombs. And maybe that's why they can bring people to accomplish the greatest task we have at hand.
I love the comfort of those moments that the songs bring, but those moments are on display, like relics in a museum and that comfort a brief asylum. Time continues it's march in the figure eight of eternity, but I won't be making the return trip. The comfort is good as a reminder, good as rest, but by no means the end of the journey. They help you get back up. They [should] turn you from lamb into lion.
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