Haze.

Every shining fortnight I leave my new, nebulous life in north campus behind and return to the seemingly inanimate life of rural confines. Seemingly. There's something that holds me here, snug and warm. My own little dream world that I escape into every two weeks when college becomes too real. A dream world that took four years to construct, to adorn, make it homely. Less gray, less ivory, less cold. Less tower, less wall. More home, less house. Music. My personal little cubby hole. Most people would regard this.. reverence.. for music as juvenile. In more hipster terms? Wannabe. Needing to be cool, a part of it. A vehicle that carries my leo trait of ostentation? Most people would be wrong. Its something else. Something different, perhaps, something stronger, shakingly stronger than the normal, healthy respect most people harbour for melody and harmony. Reverence. Gratitude. There's something very tangibly identifiable about indie. About Gibbard and Mercer. It takes possession. And it's hardly normal. This blind-eyed.. losing. Transportation. Losing. Dissolution of reality. My personal fire-exit. Like the earth is not a cold, dead place after all (and if you point this one out, I'll consider marriage =) ). Like the first breath after coma (hah, yes, repetition). As I type this out, I have a sinking feeling I'm not doing the adulation justice. To put it simply, after a whole year of losing touch with this one best friend, these voices, these pieces of melody, it feels good to be back. Like therapy after withdrawal. Or like the rush of adrenalin after you first inject in the drug after a long period of restraint. A frenzy begins. A chaotic, all-consuming pandemonium that expresses sheer bewilderment. "Wow, how did I stay away for so long?" Music. The word doesn't do justice to everything it encompasses for a small town girl. When reality doesn't offer you the fluctuations in emotion and feeling that you crave, when you're 18 and in Faridabad. You turn to other people's higher experiences. To live a little, vicariously. And that's what music is, really. My feet planted in underground New York and my ear an inch away from Kevin Drew's guitar. Acoustic and easy. Heady and relieving. Most of all? This.. intoxication.. gives me reason to believe my made up world could be real one day. Because its made by real people. They're just a few continents away. But it's their world. And it could be mine.