N i g h t i n g a l e
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N i g h t i n g a l e

As I write this, I am at the River Lagan; it’s the first time listening to Nightingale, by the water’s edge.

As I sit, the row of trees behind me whisper and sigh; rowers’ blades cut against the current; and wheels-on-tracks screech within Central Station.

 

It gave me shivers to listen again — although I had also come out without a jumper.

Nightingale was written as an addressed response to the darkness I felt, and sometimes still feel.

Here, the idea of freedom is non-existent: the cluster chords of the piano breed only captivity and isolation.

It is a methodical and calculated composition — like a ghost going through the motions of human activity.

A door guards its room; I am the door, broken by the current, reduced to drift-wood.

Towards the conclusion of the song, there is a cry for a Hope, which is to be found within the Nightingale.

But hope soon becomes swallowed up, and quickly turns to a night in gale, or, a gale in the night; for this defines the struggle: hopefulness, caught in a web of despair.

 

This song speaks of an internal war. Last week was National Suicide Awareness week. Suicide is not selfish, nor does it need to be meticiulously understood — people just need to be listened to; people just need to feel they’re needed and that they cannot let go. One of the greatest, and hardest, things we can be in this world is a good friend; but this alone might just save a life.

 

l y r i c s :

Never knew my heart could beat so cold.

Never knew my lungs could feel so old.

Eyes closed, sheltered soul.

Running on the rocks i cut my knees,

Laughing in the face of open seas —

Young, fearless and free.

You hit this heart like a drum.

Wind, air in my lungs.

But as the sun sets and darkness seeps,

The cashing of the waves they knock, knock beat;

Who’s there, drumming me?

Wooden mind and a drifting heart,

this door’s now driftwood’s sum of parts –

Your current drowning art.

You hit this heart like a drum — beat.

Wind, air in my lungs — breathe.

Nightingale, sing.

Night gale, blow in my soul — sing —

You hit this heart like a drum — beat.

Wind, air in my lungs — breathe.

Oh Nightingale, sing to me