HMV

Words, expressions, gestures, tone, language – I don’t trust them. They can be manipulated. They are manipulated. Not maliciously, not always intentionally either. Just at the behest of our inner logic, the one that tells us what we want to project, what we want to be, what we are. Irrespective of reality.

The truth is – the reality is usually more attractive. The real us, the real self, the real voice is a compelling vision, that absorbs us in its honesty, its directness. No shame, no pretensions. Just the way we are. Stark.

And that’s why we are attracted to some stories, the way we aren’t to others. We over-intellectualize it, figuring out why we like a certain picture, a certain poem, a certain book, a certain film, a certain song. But, unless you are looking for something specific and different, what usually makes us like something is the way its honesty speaks to us. Somehow, what the creator has said, or is trying to say honestly, connects with what we think or feel or how we view the world. We are able to hear the voice and we like it.

This voice tends to get lost in the cacophony that surrounds us. Every single moment of every single day, all our senses are assaulted. With hundreds and thousands and millions of images, sounds, words. They rush around us, into us, dizzying us with their scale and frequency, forcing us to spend most of our time filtering, organizing and making sense of all this. And all the while we are getting duller, tired out by this daily exertion. Clutching at vacations to help us regain something we know we have lost, but can’t figure out.

But…once in a while, we come across that special something that makes us pause, clear our minds and hearts and look upon it with absorption and interest, feeling an emotion that’s pure. A pattern in a textile, a poem circulated by a friend, a romantic comedy on a date, a peaceful sunset on a beach, a sunrise on a chilly morning, a 16th century painting in a crowded museum, an amalgamation of phrases from a conversation, a book read late into the night…the triggers are many, we just need to be alive enough to find them.

And…even rarer…we come across that special someone whose voice we hear. Beyond the goodness of the looks or the specialty of the talent or the charm of the words, there’s that voice. A voice evocative of the individual. Pure and clear. Passionate and chillingly objective. Romantic and cynical. Witheringly insightful into the world around and then turning that same gaze inwards, mercilessly examining each emotion and action and putting it out there. The voice of an intelligent rationalist. The voice of a poet filled with dreams and anger and love. Mingled into one unique strain. The strain that calls out to me.