Don't Kill Me For This

With heart and with soul, he sings. A rich tone emanates from his lips, and his words are proud with a head held high.

He sings of might and of strength. He sings to inspire warriors and march armies.

In my mind, he is standing upon a ship's mast, back erect and gaze directed towards the horizon. He sings loudly, stretching out his lungs. Breathing in great gulps of air, he sings into the wind. In a voice so clear that the wind cannot break it. In a voice so commanding that the wind must indeed carry it, wherever he instructs it too. He commands a fleet and he goes to battle. He leads them on as only he can. The wind is his instrument, his string section, his orchestra. It amplifies his voice and it beats against wind-breakers to his rhythm.

He sings of poetry and of true answers. He sings to make the stones weep and the walls believe.

I see him stand upon a road, walking slow and alone. His head is bowed down but his feet march quickly and swiftly. In a straight line, the shortest path to nowhere in particular. His hands are in his pockets, he looks not to any horizon. He looks at the ground if anywhere, but he sees only inside himself. He sings softly, cajoling and persuading. He calls out for peace and ease of mind. He searches for answers inside himself. You see, he feels everything to know is already there, in front of him. We just have to ask the right questions, to find out. If we can't find out anymore, it would be time to leave. He strives, to seek, to find, while his feet march on. To shelter. To oblivion. To the mouth of a waking volcano.

He sings of beauty and of seductive wit. He sings to charm fairies and woo fair damsels.

In my mind he sits at a table. He sings to only her ears. No one else is to hear any of this. He doesn't really sing. He whispers, he murmurs. Softly. Sweet nothings into the ears of a beloved. He asks for her love and promises her his life, his money, his everything. Or if that doesn't work out, he adds wryly, there's always her sister too.

He sings of the sun and he sings of the mankind beneath it. He sings of long nights and of shivering and of no respite.

He sings of butterflies and zebras, and moonbeams and fairy tales. He sings of death and of destruction, and how he's become so numb.

He sings of you and I, in this beautiful world.

At which point I snap, open the bathroom door, and ask if he would stop it already.

My room-mate gets emotional sometimes, while washing his clothes. I tell you.