And so these cursed songs never become silent.
Their haunting melodies and lamenting lyrics
penetrate our everyday existence, day in and day out.
Sometimes, they blatantly shove the anguish in your face
as the (unfortunate) familiar chords are blurted out over the radio
like they knew you were listening now.
Sometimes, it creeps up on you with premeditated evilness
slyly, like a demon bully child on the class weakling
when you suddenly recognize the damnable tune on the grating supermarket speaker
between the light-hearted giggles of the couple choosing a dessert for their romantic dinner.
in a moment of abandonment of all intentions of restoration
you choose, deliberately, almost aggressively
to allow the cursed songs to be injected into your veins
drinking in the remembrance of past wounds and yes, even happiness
with an abnormal hunger,
as if exposing and exploiting these phantom memories
will miraculously cure the longing, the regret, the hurt and,
the haunting question of ‘what if…?’
But the cure never comes.
On the contrary, the ache seems to expand exponentially, violently
until it becomes too big to bear.
And then it pathetically deflates – not bursts – like a soggy colorless balloon,
turning you into a lifeless cocoon,
numb and sterile to all hope and happiness
but with the aching memories always lurking
silently spreading poisonous infection below the surface
which will one day erupt like a dormant volcano
with a guaranteed path of destruction.
Yet, we, the music martyrs
embrace our toxic addiction with the devotion of a loving mother
our child, the manifestation of pain.