Deja Vu

I had deja vu the moment he told me he might not be able to come to Toronto next week. Je l'ai deja vu dans mon reve. The coffee cup stopped just short of my lips, and my eyes widened a little, startled at the sudden recollection.

Je me souviens

Sometimes, when the noxious fumes of a pestilent week permeate my breathing space, saturating the air, blackening out the sun, and making me a little faint, music pulls me away from the danger like a hero's hand at my waist.

The beginning notes of a good song are the earliest breaths of clean air, the whiff of fresh pastries, the brief but exciting glimmer of infinite possibilities of infinitesimal variations, and alongside, a small reminder that the rays of happiness shone on my face not too long ago.

The hook (at its very best!) is contentment in its atomic form, an appreciation of the beauty in simplicity that is best enjoyed with closed eyes: a warm blanket and a cuppa on the coldest day, the first sip of work-week coffee, the safety-net of those who care, the evening glow of the sun from the passenger seat as a lover drives, sitting on the window-sill in the cover of dusk watching the tiny flickering lights of traffic down below, all the different shades of off-white, the sweet taste of water post-workout, and most importantly, a respite from the objects and events that make me forget all these things.

The best songs inspire me to think of what can, instead of what cannot, as their melodies stir the inner dragon that slumbers in the deep recesses of my mind's corners, flints to its steel scales as an amaranthine fire, once dormant, peeks out through the metal, with each repeat making it successively difficult to quell.