Babel

I'm writing a lot right now, and oddly, I'm not drawing at all.  My latest journal is all short stories so far.  I'm writing about all the the things I usually draw about.  The things that pop into my brain between hitting snooze.  Things that I wish could happen.  Emotions that I want to work through.  I've been listening to Mumford's Babel since it came out, and it seems to tell a very clear story.  Kind of the same way the Florence + the Machine's Ceremonials has a very clear a "I don't know how to say 'I love you'" through-line.   You may not agree with me, but this is the story I hear:

~ <3 ~

They met and they fell in love.  It was pretty uneventful except that it was quick.  Maybe they didn't even know they were in love; they just knew that they liked being together, a lot.

At first, he felt like she had saved him.  Saved him from some darkness, some hatred, within him.  He was elated.  He loved every minute with her.

But then, and he can't explain way, this suffocating fear crept in.  Fear of what he didn't know.  He just felt like he couldn't breathe anymore.  It overwhelmed him; his fear, his need.  He wanted to be alone, but couldn't stand it.  He was losing himself, he thought.

So when a woman, another woman, a beautiful woman, put an arm around him and flattered him, he saw a different way.  There was a way out for him.  This woman whispered in his ear and wound fingers through his hair.  Making him drunk.  Making him free.

He didn't hide what he did.  He hated himself for it.  He'd loved her and he'd thrown it away.

Wandering home that night, in the dark and cold, he knew he was destroying everything.

Her eyes burned with spite when he told her.  She grew cold and fierce, lashed out.  And he only sat there, feeling he deserved it all.

"Goodbye," he whispered as she left.  He was broken and weak, but for a brief moment, he thought he gulped air.

In time, he found himself empty and wandering again.  He hated the beautiful woman who'd intoxicated him.  He blamed her, he blamed himself, he blamed the girl he once loved.  He blamed them all.  He mourned his loss and found his freedom debilitating.

He was adrift.

He wondered if she still cared for him.  Some nights, he would pass by her house and look for the lights behind the blinds.  "Goodnight," he'd say when he couldn't find them.

Somehow he got in touch with her.  He mumbled his apologies, something he had neglected months before.  He never asked forgiveness, though.  Or let her know his pain.  Staring across the table, he tried to convince them both that it was all for the best.  He didn't know that she didn't believe it either.  He didn't know that she wanted him to ask for forgiveness.  She so desperately wanted to give it.

"How do you expect me to trust you?"  She asked.
He couldn't answer.
"I will wait," he muttered instead.

They left in silence, without resolution.  And he knew he loved her then.