07-11-2008, 04:29 PM
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Lyrics © "On the Radio" - Regina Spektor.
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So, like. Laruku isn't behaving anything remotely like how I thought he would. x_x
It was ironic, of course, that two men so consumed by their own loneliness when faced with one another, have nothing to say. As the lyrics had all seemed to leave him, so did the simplest of words. A greeting, long-rehearsed lines of smalltalk, any simple phrase to acknowledge a presence. Spoken language was, perhaps, useless to the last man on earth, but even if his voice had withered away, where were the words that facilitated his thoughts? Even if the long passages of rhetoric and prose were gone, the verses of poetry, the essays and philosophy -- where were the rest of the words? His mind was filled with silence, but he could not miss the voice. In its place were images, mute.
He laughed.
And it was not a malicious or sinister laugh. It was not mirthless; it was not loud. It was a small chuckle, a momentary smile, a profound acknowledgment of grand, longstanding stupidity. He was lonely. He was not. He was alive. He was a ghost. The world did not make a shred of sense and simultaneously did. He was on the verge of a grand breakthrough, but he could not understand it. Irony was the deadliest thing of all. It gave life to things.
The world was silent again, but suddenly, he had something he missed.
It was ironic, of course, that two men so consumed by their own loneliness when faced with one another, have nothing to say. As the lyrics had all seemed to leave him, so did the simplest of words. A greeting, long-rehearsed lines of smalltalk, any simple phrase to acknowledge a presence. Spoken language was, perhaps, useless to the last man on earth, but even if his voice had withered away, where were the words that facilitated his thoughts? Even if the long passages of rhetoric and prose were gone, the verses of poetry, the essays and philosophy -- where were the rest of the words? His mind was filled with silence, but he could not miss the voice. In its place were images, mute.
He laughed.
And it was not a malicious or sinister laugh. It was not mirthless; it was not loud. It was a small chuckle, a momentary smile, a profound acknowledgment of grand, longstanding stupidity. He was lonely. He was not. He was alive. He was a ghost. The world did not make a shred of sense and simultaneously did. He was on the verge of a grand breakthrough, but he could not understand it. Irony was the deadliest thing of all. It gave life to things.
This is how it works,he sang, suddenly and perfectly,
You're young until you're not. You love until don't~ You try until you can't~-- he turned back to the ocean --
You laugh until you cry~ You cry until you laugh~ And everyone must breathe~ Until their dying breath...The momentum died down as quickly as it had come. Perhaps he didn't know the rest. Perhaps he'd never known the beginning either.
The world was silent again, but suddenly, he had something he missed.
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