The amount of time I must have spent musing, contemplating, struggling and raging for that song only is probably too intense to even remember, if only glimpses of it all. I would wake up in the middle of the night to write a few ideas, get up before sunrise to feel the new lights, write all night to avoid any over-thinking analysis, go to a cafe or stay in my little room, go to a public place, and on, and on, and on. I probably wrote a version of that song in every possible place available and unavailable known in Tangier.
I was obsessed with “authenticity”, the measure of consciousness it requires to be honest, the nature of redemption, the meaning of being free, contrition, confession, the difference between hope and truth…
But I think the breaking point for me comes with the acknowledgment that I indeed kept that storm alive. The reality is the fact that I never wanted to take if only a second to stop and openly decide to trade shivers and any possible affective dazzle for misery. That being admitted, I knew that not only winter never really came, but the sole fact that I was so honestly exposing myself would offer me the opportunity to determine if I ever wanted to witness the first light of spring in the future.
