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yeoldontknow · 7 years

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As Still As Sound: 1

Author’s Note: my god. i have missed this world. welcome friends <3 please keep in mind the soundtrack for this story is vital to the progression and narrative! Songs for this chapter: Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon - Neil Diamond / Here Comes The Rain Again - Eurythmics Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: Soulmate!AU; fluff Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 5,168

Prologue

Wherever you are, the thunder sounds different here, rhythmic and insistent. It means to pull you, drag you away from this place, as if the sound itself is angry and important. As if the sound has hands. The rain feels the same, and it’s this sensation you cling to, the knowledge that this nether space still has rules or laws. Fingers are laced tightly between yours, skin and bone attempting to merge right down the to the marrow. The fear of separation lingers in your joints, making them start to ache and throb with the stress of departure. This fear is the kind that strikes a chill in your heart, makes you jut forward both here and against your mattress, though you don’t know why - it’s something akin to free-falling, except more violent, more desperate and urgent.

You are afraid of separation and so is he - he, the formless, blurred shape that exists solely for you, hand clasped firmly in yours. He is not matter and he is not ether, he simply is, and you know he has been made for you. This hazy outline, this tall thing, this loving thing, is beautiful in all the ways you could idealize. Hard to fathom since there is nothing to see, but you feel it. You feel it all over you, the warmth, the comfort, the strength. You feel him, his pulse thrumming through his palm, his soft skin, his breath as he exhales into your hair. Like this, you remain together, him clinging to you and you clinging to his essence. Like this, you let yourself swoon and surrender to the terror of it all.

You are afraid, both of you anxious and consumed with a sense of dread knowing this will soon be over, but the music keeps you calm. The thunder is the pulsing beep meaning to take you away, but the music. The music. The music feels like yours, feels like your heartbeat, even though it has words.

It’s okay, his voice says, voice deep and low and transcendent. Heartbeats always have words, this is how you hear them. We have to be together to hear it.

This makes sense and you accept it, because here it is easy to accept the impossible. Of course the heart has thoughts and opinions. Of course this music sounds like yours, because it is.

No, he says, but you swore you were correcting yourself. Your mouth made the words but a different voice - his voice - is the sound that carries.

Ours.

You feel your alarm before you hear it, the vibration beneath your pillow dragging you reluctantly from sleep. Your senses have departed from you, gone off to wander in spaces your body is not permitted, and it takes you a long while to gather them back - to want to bring them back. Like this, hollowed and withering, you remain perfectly still as you stare at your ceiling, waiting for the sight of your bedroom to become a comfort.

Everything here, in the safety and familiarity of your room, feels wrong, feels off, like it is not where you are meant to be. Or, rather, not where you want to be, anymore. In the center of your chest, there is a longing, a feeling you would define as nostalgia, tearing your bones apart and making a home of you, nestling inside and turning you into something absent. This feeling is heavy, a sensation similar to mourning - mind agonizing over not the day ahead, but the days you have left behind, and you suddenly feel as though you, your consciousness, have gone missing. You’re pressed into your bed by the weight of it, trapped in the space between wakefulness and sleep, and you think moving your limbs, moving any piece of you at all, would truly break your heart.

Remaining still means you can bring the dream back to life, live in the illusion of it for longer than you were meant to be allowed, and perhaps could find your way back. With every rattled inhale, the dream fades, slipping idly between your fingers like spools of string, and you will your breath to slow despite the speed of your racing pulse.

One single thought erupts in the center of your mind: a hand should be holding yours, the first hand you’ve ever wanted to clutch. You can still feel the strength of it, the rush of blood beneath the skin, the tightness around your fingers, unwilling to let go and begging not to say goodbye. Had you ever touched before this moment? Had your skin ever felt before he placed his hand in yours? Had you ever truly wanted to?

Profound, is how this feels; foreign, is what you think of it, the need for this connection invading you. This is not like you. The capacity to feel this way, or this much, has never been part of your genetic code. And yet, you find yourself struggling not to cry. Something terribly important to you, something you recognize as a part of you, has been lost after it has only just been found, and, so early in the morning, you do not have it in you to reconcile this grief.

All of you wants to give it a name - you think that naming something gives it magic, makes it eternal and makes it immortal, and if you can name it then you can birth it into your reality. You tell yourself to name it, but nothing comes, not even words. In these first few minutes of your day, all your mind can bring forward is a melody.

And just as easily as you lived in it, let yourself wallow in the great sea of this turmoil, your focus on the melody makes you go without. Against and around your body, it dissipates, returning to you the lightness of being, of living without the unbearable weight of yearning. Only now, when your lungs and heart are not flooded with sorrow do you realize your alarm is still ringing.

Turning on your side and curling into a ball, you reach beneath your pillow for your phone to silence the sound. Without the clock to wake you, the screen brings forward the last song you listened to, the song that lulled you to sleep the dark hours of the night. For several minutes, you remain like this, repeatedly illuminating the screen just to see the album art.

Two days, two whole days, you have felt this way. Bewilderingly endeared to a song and unable to crave the sound of anything else. Staring at your phone, you touch your fingers to the screen and imagine you are touching the music itself. Doing this makes you feel like you are slipping, makes you feel like you’re falling back in time, but only for a moment. It’s not even the album that makes you feel connected, simply a song, one song, the song you heard at the shop. Something about this track makes you feel possessive, makes you feel gluttonous, and you know it was this melody you heard in your dream, the soothing music that sounded like your heartbeat.

In this position you remain until you absolutely can no longer, until the last moment, making yourself late and forcing you to rush through your routine. You think it's two fold, the reason for the speed of your movements: the first, is the begrudging acknowledgement that your day must start, that your shift is looming upon you and you are forced to greet this responsibility with aplomb. The second, and you think this is possibly the primary reason you rush at all, is because every action you make brings you closer to the sound. Brings you nearer to the moment when you can play the song that has possessed you, in peace and on repeat until you must go without once more.

It’s fifteen minutes later than usual when you finally step out your door, fingers fondling your headphones and feet hurrying into the dim hallway. You're halted in your tracks when you see your old neighbor, Mr. Kim, struggling up the stairs with several bags of groceries.

‘Mr. Kim!’ you exclaim, rushing forward to guide him up the last few steps. ‘Let me help you with those.’

Sliding his bags over your wrist and forearm, you grip his hand to steady him, and relish the feeling of his cool skin against your flushed palm. The weight tugs at you, makes you plant your feet into the rickety wooden steps, and you wonder briefly how he’s made this trip without any help.

Weakly, he attempts to wave you away with his hand, almost immediately letting it fall to grip the railing. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says with a tut of his tongue. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s just these damn old knees.’

To emphasize his point, he shakes his legs slightly and moans with melodramatic flair, the sound echoing off the walls of the small hall. He flashes you a beaming smile, blinding you with tender warmth, and making wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes. It’s hard not to feel so endeared to him when he’s like this, playful and feeling well, clinging to the shades of his youthful glory, and you find yourself starting to laugh.

‘It’s not a problem,’ you chuckle, holding his hand a little tighter.

When you reach the landing, he huffs, stretching as if meaning to crack his back and his joints. Straightening, he glances to you, already waiting patiently for him at his door, and cocks an eyebrow with a compassionate scowl.

‘Aren’t you late for work?’ he asks slowly, eyeing you conspicuously.

Gently you nod, fixing pleasant smile on your features and purposely giving pretense of being unaware of his concern. ‘This is more important,’ you say, brightly.

Keeping his eye on you as he heads to his door, he digs his into his pockets for his keys.

‘You dote on me too much,’ he sighs, though it is a half-hearted complaint, the words losing their meaning thanks to his slight grin.

‘On the contrary,’ you contend, shifting your weight happily on your feet. ‘I don’t dote on you enough.’

His small chuckle at this statement is quickly diminished as he tries, unsuccessfully, to unlock his door. There is a tremor in his hands, worse now, you assume, because of his exhaustion from walking to the shops and back, which makes him unable to angle the key properly into the lock. For a few moments, you let him try to stabilize, knowing that feeling independent and useful is fundamental to his lifestyle, but, after a while, you can see the stress of the last several minutes starting to wear thin on his person. Lines form around his mouth, those of a frown and those of personal disappointment, and your stomach drops at the sight.

‘I’ve got it,’ you murmur, gently placing your hand over his and smiling up at him.

He does not look at you, rather just frowns sadly at the lock. ‘These damn things are so hard to see,’ he sighs, pushing through his door once you get it open. In truth, both of you know this isn't the reason for his struggle, but, just for now, you let it be so. ‘I’d be lost without you.’

A fond smile spreads itself across your lips as he takes the bags from you and you watch him move through his flat. His hunched shoulders as he is brought down by the weight, his slow, yet steady, steps as he moves through into his kitchen, all of these things make you want to reach out and hold him to you, to let him know he is not truly alone. Perhaps, you think, your favourite part of him are his hands, weathered, old, and filled with so many stories. They tremble now, slightly more so than they used to, but the liver marks and the worn skin tell stories of love, of youthful recklessness, and kindness. Always, when he tells you things about his life as a boy and a young man, he holds your hand, clinging to you as if his words are meant to live through you. Always, you hold onto him just as tightly, almost afraid to let him go.

Gracelessly, he drops the bags to his counter and chuckles at the way his bananas tumble from the bag. An odd, albeit happy, reaction to such a small event.

‘I think the same would be said for me,’ you mutter softly, unsure if he could hear you at all.

You mean every word of the statement, the reality that you view him more as a grandfather and less as a neighbor always seeming to wash over you when you see him. When you first moved to the city for uni, you had no one to truly help you settle. Kate, close as she was, was still a train journey away, and, with her student budget, was never truly able to afford to visit as often as she would have liked - not until she moved into the city herself. Your family, off in Kettering, were unable to offer any form of assistance, the distance and the time putting a strain on their ability to provide aid. When you think back on your first days alone in the city, the predilection of that time comes from the memories of days with Mr. Kim, his tattered couch, and his strong builder’s tea.

From your position in the doorway, you can see into his flat and into the living room. Pictures line the walls, many in black and white, others in bright technicolour. Like usual, you are drawn to his wedding photo, a faded image framed and hanging over his record player. Striking, as always, how beautiful he and his wife looked, turning the image into something closer to a glamour shot than a wedding photo. Striking, as always, how blissfully, incandescently happy they were.

In stark contrast, below the image is a record player atop a cabinet filled, messily, with records. Collection too large for such a small thing, they spill out into several crates surrounding the wood, some even nestled in the space between his end tables and his couch. Trinkets, small things his son and grandchildren send him from abroad, are scattered around the room - treasured by him, though many existing entirely without use or purpose.

Turning back to him, your eyes catch the time on the microwave.

Late. You are terribly late, but there’s a slight tug at your heart at the idea of leaving him, especially when he’s just started to unpack the bourbon cremes.

With a sigh, you look down at your feet and pout. ‘I want to stay and help but -’

‘Go, go,’ he cuts you off, not bothering to turn and look at you, still puttering with his items. ‘This is the easy part.’

You allow yourself to rush, then, tearing down the stairs with a shout that you will see him later. Scolding yourself for staying so late you have to run, taking the underground steps in leaps and swiping your oyster with impatient force. A train is already waiting at the platform, doors open and beeping that they will soon close, and you run through with a wheeze just as they shut behind you with a click.

All eyes are on you, commuters watching the cacophony of you with distaste and regarding you as an impolite disturbance on such a quiet ride. With a blush, you find a seat towards the middle of the car and relax, eager to disappear from this moment and into the song you’ve been anxiously waiting to hear. Closing your eyes and resting your head back against the carriage wall, you put your headphones on and sigh. In this false darkness, you let the first notes of music carry you, let them allay your heartbeat with ease.

The goosebumps happen all at once and almost instantly, raising along your flesh as though you are passing through a chill in the air and sending a shiver down your spine. They walk along you, the sound of the arrangement and the instruments, traversing the totality of you as if you are territory made for charting. Giving yourself over to this feeling, willingly and completely, makes a small smile spread across your face with contented joy. Arresting, you think, the flood of emotion that comes with truly, really letting yourself go. Arresting, you think, the liberation that comes with letting your soul wander through sound.

But then, it happens. You cannot call it a slip, because you can feel you are still on the tube, in the seat, and breathing in compressed, recycled air. You cannot call it a pull, because you are not being lead anywhere, rather something is being brought to you, something important, something that makes you feel vulnerable. Furrowing your brow, you try to make sense of it, this intrusion. It’s not that you don’t want it, it’s simply that you did not invite it and cannot fathom why now, after days of listening to this song, it means to take a hold of you.

And then, all at once, you hear it: breathing.

It is not your own breath, yours a shallow symphony of confusion and this a languid drawl of passionate nonchalance. In your headphones you hear it, a small hum, the low, baritone rumble of male intonation. The sound is deep, soft enough to simply be a vibration in your ears, and your eyes open, wide and panicked and searching the carriage for answers.

This, you know, is wrong. Every single moment this continues is wrong and impossible. No one is leaning into your shoulder to share your music, no one is even really looking at you, your interruption from before either entirely forgotten or ignored. Yet, still, you hear it, living inside your headphones as though it was made to be there, as if it always had been there and all you needed to do was listen.

Your fingers move to change the track, but something stops you. All of you wants to keep listening, feels like you need to keep going, like changing the track would sever something inside you and your soul would take to bleeding internally. Instead, you simply listen, listen to the way the breath and the voice glide along each note as though they are making love, as though they are living every possible, glorious aspect of life through the sound of music itself.

Swollen, is the feeling that erupts in your chest. Found, is the feeling that blossoms in your heart. You know this sound, you know this breath. It’s the one you heard in your dream, the one you felt in your hair as it spilled down and over your shoulders, onto your skin, and into your bones. Your heart skips a beat, takes to racing in this mystifying elation, and it takes you several seconds to find your voice, the cadence of it having wandered off to join the body of the man in your ears.

Heat spreads across your face, cheeks and lips blushing in excitement and bashful glee while your tongue suddenly goes dry. Nothing, you think, has ever sounded quite as glorious as the cascading breath of this imaginary person. Nothing, you think, ever will.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over. There is no warm breath in your ears, no low voice, just another track on the album and the groan of the tube as it grinds to a painfully slow halt. Without the comfort of the hum, you find surrendering to any magic impossible and unbearable, and you don’t know why you would have ever felt this way at all. Cruel, you think this is, cruel and needlessly unkind of yourself, to trick your mind into bringing something so important to life when you cannot truly have it. Cruel, you think, to return you to your true nature after giving you a glimpse of a softer you, a kinder you, without ever giving you a chance to truly bloom.

Holding your phone in your hand, you study the album for a long while, regard it coolly and find you see it now as something offensive. This small, inanimate thing tricked you, tricked you into a feeling of comfort and joy, and now, you think, you want nothing to do with it. You find it offensive. You find it repugnant. Whatever connection you had with this album is gone, now, departed from you and off to find another lonely hand to hold. Or, perhaps, this connection still lingers inside you as a raw, flayed thing, skinned and severed and aching to be brought back to fruition by a dream.

You find you cannot bring yourself to listen to it, not anymore. Not after it hurt you so viscerally.

You scroll through your music.

You listen to something entirely different.

Three days later and still you cannot stop thinking about the breathing in your headphones. In truth, you would not call this a haunting, rather it simply feels like a piece of you, something you did not know you had wanted, has abandoned you once more. Now, mostly, you just want to know why.

It has not happened again, not even with all your focus, and you find comfort in the thought that this was likely just a fluke. In the days prior, you had dreamed, rather intensely, of too many things. A song. A blurred husk of a man you will likely never meet. You dreamed rather intensely and yet, there are reasons for all of these things, reasons for why you dreamed at all.

The song, you know, played in your mind because you had briefly been obsessed with it. Had you tried to count the number of times you listened to it, you would be embarrassed and sheepish, regarding the amount with downcast eyes, and now you are glad to say you've moved on. Today, it is easy to move through other albums and artists, without feeling the need to return to it all.

The man, you assume, is because Kate bonding with her soulmate has resulted in a paramount shift in your life. Nothing, you know, will likely ever be or feel the same, and navigating through this shift has been a daunting undertaking, regardless of how thrilled you are on her behalf. You would not say that you are envious of her bond, merely wish that, if you have a soulmate at all, it would just happen. The waiting is what makes you bitter, not because you are eager but because it gives you time to apply logic and memory to a thing that circumvents both, exists beyond both, and you resent it. If it would just happen, then it would be over, and you would find relief from all this thinking.

There are answers for everything, about the dream and the hum and the song, and you find that, having these answers firmly rooted in your mind, makes it easier to let the event go.

Three days later and you don't really miss any of these things at all.

Today the early morning sun has been replaced with clouds, thick, bulbous things that mean to spill their deluge over the city. Sitting on a bench in Camden, just beyond the market, you recline against the old wood and smile up at the sky. Around you, couples and people race into The Diner or into small shops to avoid the oncoming torrent of rain. You don't move, though. You've always loved the rain, thought of it as something holy.

When the first drops of water hit your nose, you giggle, readying yourself to be drenched - with everything. This rain feels important, you don't know why you think that, but you do. Something about this storm means to overtake, change, and cleanse, and you want to be the first victim of its onslaught.

When the first drops of water hit your nose, the song changes, and, with your eyes closed, you bark out a laugh. Fitting, you think, this song so terribly suited to this event. You sigh. You turn the volume up.

And, just as before, the world around you begins to change.

Suddenly, it’s very important you consider all the bodies that have sat on this bench before you. Bodies in time and bodies in space, and you wonder seriously about their lives. Were they happy? Were they content with the chaos of their brief, small existence? Were they ever, truly, able to say they were pleased with the outcome of their life? Heavy questions, meaningful questions. They slither through your mind, too fast for you to truly hold them, but they feel nice, you think. Considering them feels almost sweet, almost familiar.

Hands were held here, on this bench. Hands and fingers entwined, many in the euphoric discovery of love, and others in the trembling clutch of farewell. Love and life have lived and died here, and you suddenly start to view this bench as a totem. This, you think, is the most important thing your hands have ever touched.

And then, just as before, just as quietly and just as naturally, the breathing returns.

Panic floods your senses at the sound, makes your blood heat and start to boil, flushing your chest and your cheeks as you try desperately to cling to this moment. Sitting upright, you try to hold onto this feeling, to focus all your attention on it so that it does not slip between your open palms. Unlike before, your voice has not left you, rooted now to your heart and your body. Unlike before, you have the power to speak.

‘Hello?’ you snap, staring straight ahead and into the crowded street.

No one bothers to look at you, assuming you are simply taking a call and there is no reason for them to care. You want to scream at them, shout at them, tell them that something beautiful and something horrible is about to happen, or is happening, and you are furious no one wants to notice.

This, you think, is the great wave of change brought on by the rain and by your heart. Skin suddenly damp and moist, you find you are trembling, though you are unsure if it is because you are wet or if it is because you were grossly, childishly, unprepared for something this grandiose.

‘Hello?’

The voice resonates through your headphones, deep and low, the image of chocolate suddenly igniting in your vision, and you find you are overcome.

You know this voice. You love, and have loved, this voice. You think you’ve loved this voice into the very depths of your being without ever knowing its cadence. This voice possess and captivates you, takes control of your body, your ribs, your veins, and makes you feel as though you capsizing. You are capsizing beneath the strength and the ardor of it, and, for this, you are glad. You are glad and you will never have your fill of it.

Tears pool in your eyes, even though you are smiling. They burn as they spill out and over, staining your cheeks with their warmth in contrast with the coolness of the rain. All along your skin there are sparks, sharp tingles that feel like static, body and soul becoming an electric, volatile thing, and you think your flesh has never looked as good as it does now, now when it finally feels alive. Blood rushes into your lips, breath tumbling between your open mouth in a shallow rhythm. Red, you think, the colour and shade of this moment is red.

Three days later and you find you missed this, craved this sound with the entirety of your being, and, somehow, you have convinced yourself you did not; somehow, you convinced yourself you were okay. Three days later, and finally it feels like you've come back. You've come back to him.

‘Who is this?’ you whisper, and you know that, whatever or whomever this is, he has a name. For you to even know it is a gendered body you are hearing surprises you, but this, he, feels like yours. This person feels like an extension of you and, therefore, it is difficult to think of it, of him, as anything less.

‘What the fuck?’ he mutters, frustrated over the clatter of objects you cannot place. ‘Is the tape broken?’

Alarmed. Bewildered. Confused. Frightened. He is all of these things, muttering and cursing to himself, and so blissfully human and so blissfully alive that your laugh at the mess of it all is mixed with a choked sob.

You're laughing. You are laughing. You do not think you can stop. You do not want to.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, giggling and shaking through your tears. ‘Who is this?’

There is a long pause, one that is neither tense nor comfortable, one that simply is, and you smile the whole way through it.

‘God?’ he tentatively asks, but you can hear the grin in his voice.

For some reason, you cannot stop giggling, and his proclamation that you could be a deity starts your laughter all over again. ‘You're God?’

‘No,’ he snorts, and he seems just as shocked as you to be comfortable with this development. ‘Are you God?’

‘No,’ you say with a breathy sigh. ‘I am not God.’

Both of you fall silent for a long while, perhaps both just smiling and existing contentedly with one another as the song plays distantly in your mind. It’s going, playing along and waiting for you to listen to it, but you don’t care, not really, not anymore. The music is meaningless, even though moments before it was so important to your enjoyment of the rain. It’s white noise, at this point, there but not really necessary. There, but fractious in its efforts to command your attention. You find you want no part of it, desiring only the sound of his breath over the din.

Eventually, finally, he speaks

‘I'm Chanyeol.’

Relief floods you, the sound of the syllables something wholly cosmic, wholly magical. This is what you had been seeking, the tangibility and power of a name, the identity of something yours.

You make to give the same power back to him, open your lips to tell him your name, the words trying to rush off your tongue at a breakneck speed, but, before you can even form them, before you can lick them from your mouth and put them in his, he is gone.

The song has changed. He is no longer there, yours but missing. Lost, yet again, and this time worse. This time, you have been halved, severed and skinned, and feeling the tragedy overtakes you.

Now, there is nothing.

Now, all you have is a small, fragile name.

Chanyeol.

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rhiminee · 7 years

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BIG OL’ LEO EP FEELINGS POST!

So. If you follow me on tumblr then you obviously know that David Archuleta released a new EP on Friday. I meant to make a post over the weekend but real life happens so here I am with all my feelings on Monday night! Honestly maybe it’s a good thing though because I’ve been listening to this EP so much the past 4 days and I honestly love it even more now. Like. How is that possible. Anywayyyyyyy let’s get to the good stuff! I’m including YT links below each song for ease of accessibility and ease of falling completely in love!

1. Other Things in Sight

Oh lo. This song. I never thought David would write a kiss off song but that’s totally what this is. He’s so calm about completely ripping someone. HA. I am crying with joy inside at how much I love love love this song and this side of David coming out in his writing. What’s so amazing is he’s totally telling off people who try to control him but he’s also got this jam that’s so freaking funky and singing like melted butter I don’t even understand. He’s so smooth in this that I didn’t even realize how much he was slaying until I wrote out the lyrics. Like. Boy you are the kindest sweetest savage I’ve ever seen in my life and I am full of admiration at your skills. Also the beat on this song is insane and delicious. all you seem to say is get serious got me curious who it is that you think you’re talking to think you’ve got control like a hypnotist that’s ridiculous you gotta let go cuz this is not your life it’s not your call to make this time 🔥 🔥 🔥 🔥 🔥 🔥 i just wanna little more breeze a little more ease a little less people i can’t please got other things in sight in mind give me a little more faith little more space little more room for my mistakes i’ve got other thing in sight, other things in sight in mind

I had to stop myself because honestly I’d just like to lyric quote the entire song lmao. I think this might be my favorite song on the EP. It’s so hard through because there’s not a single weak song in the bunch. This one is definitely my jam though. I cannot willnot ever get over the vibe. Amazing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIVfof_CRC0

2. Someone To Love

The first time I heard this song and he went into the oooooooooo section (you’ll know once you listen lol) I was like....what. It took me so off guard. I was off balance and I didn’t know what to think but the second time I listened I was ooo-oooing along and much to my surprise this is the song I’ve found myself singing unconsciously when I’m just living life. I think that lady in the produce section especially appreciated it on Saturday night.

feels like a deep breath feels like a good rest when you come to find it’s not all about you i needed a jump start hooked up to this heart i needed to wake up and break out from this old point of view

LOVE. Why does David write the lyrics to my heart. Also the acoustic version of this song is straight fire. It made me fall in love with it even more.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eY1YUFLG7ow

3. I’m Ready

Put on a pair of headphones and fall into this one. David has been performing this in concert since last year so before the EP came out I was like yeah we’ve heard it before, what are the other 3 songs. But then. Then. I heard this studio version of I’m Ready and it’s so transcendent. I can’t even explain, you just need to listen with your ears and heart open. That final bridge where he’s singing way highhhhhh up to the heavens omg the first time I heard that I got tears in my eyes. And then when Annie came on at the very end I had tears on my face. Before this was released I had no idea that she was such a huge part of this song and it gives me so many feelings to hear her there. When she sings stay next to me and I know what happened to her I’m just...man. It’s just very powerful. And a beautiful tribute to her. This one is 100% love.

i’m ready for change i’m not afraid to lose and leave it all behind and i know that i can’t see around the bend but if i let you in i know i’ll be alright

cuz when i get there who knows how it’ll end but i know i’ll get there

If you don’t know the story, condensed version: Annie is a good friend of David’s who felt strongly that he should not give up on I’m Ready. He was stalled on it and had it on the back burner for years. Annie gave him ideas and encouragement and worked with him on it and he finished it. Annie never got to hear the final product though because she fell and was killed while hiking in Oregon last year. She was alone and it took weeks of searching before she was found. David spoke with her family and asked if they were ok with him adding some vocals Annie had recorded while helping him work on the song. That’s what you hear at the end. That, and the sound of my tears falling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZYsXo_gHmw

4. Spotlight Down

This is the most David song ever made. He’s so honest and forthright in singing his truth here. It’s like a song version of his journey from age 16 to 26. It makes me so happy that he had the courage to take his life back to where he could live it as David. I don’t know if that even makes sense but yeah.

i was running hard and fast on someone else’s highway but that can’t last i was counting the days to singing solo songs that know my heart this is where i start i can’t live a life on display watching every move that i make this world’s not a stage it’s been remade scenes were moving too fast waiting for the curtains to crash i’m standing now spotlight down.

This guy. He sings his soul, his vulnerabilities, his realities. I admire that courage so much. At times you hear a little shakiness in his voice and you can tell he feels everything when he sings it but then you also hear his strength and it’s one of the most pure beautiful things in this world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoKEUGrZjKs

Whew. You guys. This whole EP is amazing. If you haven’t listened yet, I can’t encourage you enough to check it out. It’s David’s heart and soul in musical form. Please support his amazing talent. Here’s the places you can get his music:

Buy Leo: iTunes Amazon Stream Leo: Spotify Apple Music

finis.

#david archuleta #leo #leo ep #new music #archie music tho #music that sings in heart language #i keep going and going #even if they all stop i keep going #True Feelings #we do not deserve him #hold me just a minute can you hold me just a minute now

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dreamcatch22 · 7 years

Text

Dream Blog: Attack of the Numbers

September 11th, 2016:

My seat accelerated deep into the space, and I noticed that less and less stars and planet appeared around us. The whiteness that has been so prevalent at this beginning of this therapeutic experienced resurfaced. Then, my movie theater seat stopped, and I flung from it headfirst into the massive white room that welcomed me into this chaotic world that transcends my state of consciousness. My body skidded across a marble floor, but I did not break any bones in my body. No bruises or scratches surfaced on my skin either. My All-Efficient AirPods stayed in my ears during my free-fall. I took these headphones out of my ears and stuffed them into the right pocket of my jeans.

I picked myself up and walked down the white room. I heard incessant crying and screaming ahead of me, but I didn’t know who was mourning nor did I care. My stride slow down as I thought more critically about why this huge room is so white. Then, I saw not too far off in the distance Will Smith running towards me and crying. He held a book and shouted different letters of the alphabet out of order. Well, I should have known that it was Will Smith crying and screaming earlier. Several numbers, who were actually muppets, chased the actor and tried hitting and tackling him during this pursuit. Specifically, the number one, the number two, the number three, and the number four ran after Will Smith and eventually tripped him near where I was walking.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Q-Z-Y-T-G-A-B-B-B-J-O-T! Cut that out! You numbers are so mean!” cried Will Smith out of desperation. The actor crouched onto the ground and swatted his arms at the numbers like they were flies on a hot summer day.

“B-V-R-A-D-C-E-Q-H-E-N-L-P-A-W-Q-R-T-C-X-G-I-O-L-K-W,” recited Will Smith to the tune of the alphabet song. The four number-shaped muppets did not stop ridiculing Will Smith.

The number song snickered, “There’s no rhyme or reason for your purpose, Mr. Smith. Why do recite nonsense? Learn the mathematics that surrounds us and become one of us. Ah-he-he-he-he!”

Finally, I stood up and gripped both of my fists. While I stormed over to where the numbers were bullying Will Smith, I bellowed at the top of my lungs, “That’s enough! All of your numbers need to cut all of this buffoonery out! Leave Will Smith alone! He may get on my nerves, but it disgusts me to watch you bully someone who’s done nothing to you! I’m not afraid to stand up for anyone, even if I don’t know the victim or if I don’t always get along with the victim. You numbers need to leave before I curb stomp all of you!”

The number two snapped back, “Oh yeah, well, we don’t take too kindly to people who recite the alphabet. It’s offensive to us, numbers. We live by formulas, for letters conform to our rules and regulations. You better think twice about the physics of your curb stomping.”

“Oh yeah,” I responded confidently.

Will Smith lied on the ground and sobbed while I walked over to the number three. I punched the number three right in the middle of this muppet that was twice my height. The number three fell down without defending itself. I walked over to this muppet’s head, or the upper curve of a number three, and curb stomped this massive puppet without hesitation. My body did not pause to contemplate the consequences of my actions. My foot smashed the upper portion of the number three. The other three numbers looked at me out of fear. Then, they started crying like children that skinned their knees for the very first time. I had no intention of stopping my attack on the number three. Small bits of the number three flew out from underneath my foot as I kept crushing it.

Then, lightning struck all four of these numbers and shocked them for what seemed like hours. The lightning’s sudden impact on the number three pushed me back, similar to how I flew out of my movie theater seat earlier. I landed on my back and lied there just like Will Smith, but I wasn’t crying. I raised myself up, sat there Indian style, and witnessed the immense lightning electrocute these muppets. The four, mean-spirited burnt to a crisp as they cried for mercy. The onslaught of lightning stopped, I heard their bodies fizzle like a pizza taken out of an oven after it was left in there for too long. Each number of the four numbers immediately ran away and bawled profusely. A trail of fallen, burnt parts of their skin formed when they sprinted away from us. I walked over to Will Smith and helped him get up. I looked around us to see who pulled off this act of sorcery. Footsteps crept up behind us. When I turned around, Werner Herzog approached us with his right arm stretched out. His fingers dangled in the air, similar to how a puppeteer pulls and controls the strings of his puppets. I flinched because because I didn’t know what he was going to do.

“My son, my son, I’ve cast away those evil creatures. They are done,” assured Werner Herzog.

“So, it was you who electrocuted those numbers like a powerful Jedi Master?!?” I asked out of a mixture between shock and disbelief.

“Yes, William. I rescued you and Mr. Smith from those wretched puppets. I know that you were absorbed in the heat of the moment attacking the number three, but you also underestimated how powerful those numbers are. They were setting you up for a humiliating defeat, so I stepped in and scorched them,” explained Werner Herzog. He looked at me hoping that I would trust him for once.

“So, you are a Jedi Master?” I questioned skeptically.

“Of course! George Lucas would never admit it, but Aguirre, the Wrath of God was one of the many films that inspired his Star Wars franchise. I even doctored the scripts for the original trilogy. George Lucas and Lawrence Kasdan would never admit that either,” revealed Werner Herzog as his eyes widened out of excitement.

“That’s amazing. I never knew that. You definitely put on the persona that you’re a Jedi. I’m sure that Yoda, Mace Windu, Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon would all be proud of you,” I said enthusiastically.

“Thank you, William. I can tell that you’re a huge Star Wars fan,” replied Werner Herzog.

“Yep. Hey, um, this might be random, but I want to apologize for taking too long to finish the algebra exam earlier,” I said solemnly.

“William, we’ll talk about that later. Right now, we must wait for George the Orangutan, Stinky, Harold, Sid, the Crazy Bald Man, and your classmate who I wanted to obliterate, Matthew. In the meantime, you need to read The Shepheardes Calender.”

“Yessir. The Crazy Bald Man told me a lot information about that work when I entered this state of, um, natural spiritual free form cleansing therapy,” I said as if I knew exactly what I was doing.

“Listen to him, William. He’s not a fool. You’ll need him during these difficult, chaotic times. Please read this important piece of literature,” advised Werner Herzog.

“No problem,” I said casually.

Werner Herzog pulled a copy of The Shepheardes Calendar out of his light brown trench coat and handed it to me. I sat down next to Will Smith and read it while I waited for my other friends to arrive. Will Smith sat there and itched his arms occasionally. He didn’t recite the alphabet or run around us like a child who ate too much sugar. Werner Herzog just paced back and forth in front of us.

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