Homesick

The+Cure (7)v1

You’re sitting and you’re thinking. The mind just wouldn’t stop, would it? At least not in my case. There’s always a bit of chatter going on somewhere in my mind’s back alley and it’s relentless. Like a bee buzzing near the ears, close enough for you to listen but just out of your reach so you can’t get rid of it. Round and round, it hovers around you. But then, a song starts. The number of things that may go through your mind, depending on what kind of song it is, are endless. But when Homesick begins, everything stops. Time stands still. The mind thinks nothing. Nothing. As it starts, it tickles your senses sensuously. That’s probably where the trance is set in motion. I wouldn’t know for sure, I’ve never managed to break free from it. Slowly, the walls begin to close around you. The Cure are trying to strangle you, to drown you. They’re pushing you deeper and deeper. Where? I don’t know. But the voice is breaking down. The air is getting thinner. I’m at the bottom. I see nothing, hear nothing. I’m still alive and floating in the deep dark sea. But in that dark, from somewhere, a tune is rearing its head. The sea shivers with a sense of anticipation. I’m excited. What could it be? I wonder. Then, it starts. The Bang! The hair on the skin stands on edge as The Cure throw all modesty to the wind and let the music go wild. A chill rushes through the spine. But the tune is still picking up! It’s filling my world. It’s everywhere now. It’s above me and its below me. Its ahead and its behind. I see it now, see everything. The Cure have created an all-out concert at the bottom of the damned ocean! The lights are blinding and the noise is now deafening. The crowd is out. They are drowning in Smith’s melodious sorrow but they don’t even care. Their eyes and ears are all taken. The boys are already on stage. The stage is floating. We are floating. The concert is floating. The cheers, the noise, it just wouldn’t stop. The hands just wouldn’t go down. “Hey hey! Just one more and I’ll walk away…” The noise reaches a crescendo. It’s pandemonium. Robert Smith is killing everybody. He is hitting every single one of the crowd with darts drugged with overwhelming sorrow. The trance is complete. We are all linked. It’s just the band and us now. Nothing in between. Now nothing can break the atmosphere. We follow them to the end of the earth. And back again. The underwater procession of euphoric depression is all-encompassing. That’s the only thing in our minds and nothing else matters. There’s just one world, the world of Robert Smith. It’s tragic and dead and in that we’re alive. Rhythmically, we all nod and we all sing. It goes on for hours, days, weeks. We never kept track of time. It felt both like an age and a second. And within that time, the moonlight had managed to trickle down every single layer of Smith’s melancholic symphony and had finally made its way to the bottom of the ocean. It hits us. We bathe in it. It wakes us up. We open our eyes. We look up. The Cure are taking a bow. Smith is bidding goodbye. We blink. They’re gone. The night is over.

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