Sorrow - Pink Floyd (live)
Ruh roh. She's busting out the Floyd. That must mean boy trouble. My only trouble with boys is that none of them are David Gilmour. Or John Keats. Or some miraculous twist of both.
Don't date men who aren't poets or musicians. They're not worth it.
Today, I will say that I hope he gets his leg blown off for joining the army and being a douchebag. Tomorrow I might regret it.
I guess that's not really a review, or a critique. But doesn't it say something about the music, or my connection to the music, that every time I'm feeling shitty about something, Pink Floyd is the only thing I can listen to that fits? Not the plateau, the plateau music (everything else I've shared here, pretty much) is for everyday. I think I'm a generally lull person, morose. A facade of moroseness. I'm bright red in the center and grey on the edges, and it comes across as mauve. The plateau music is mauve.
Pink Floyd is a deep red vein. Pink Floyd is the only music epic enough, that I have a personal relationship with enough to echo or express my heartache. When your world implodes, when your paradigm shatters, when you realize you've spent two years on nothing in the grand scheme of things, you need vast, echoey, deep, rich, classic, original music. For me, that is Floyd. It will always be Floyd.
I've got it repeating right now, this song. It's music to drown in, that's what it is. Marooned was for my first real attempt at, well, perhaps it's better not to say. Sorrow is for this, Sorrow is the long, smoky bar I can drink myself under and stop time in.
Or, well. Yeah.