Behind My Eyes

Yiruma's Indigo

I don't write about love necessarily because I know what love is, I write about love because I know what it can be. Expressing all that has no definition. Feelings that no words bring justice to. Writing about love, it's like music. Musicians make their feelings so clear, yet there's a depth no one can reach. Things hidden away, things unspoken by the ink, the fingers and breaths of the musicians... that is what draws us in. It's not about the words written or the notes played out perfectly, faster, slower, louder, softer, deeper, harder- until they reach the climax of their piece, and fall again after every high key, shattered glass, hits the floor of their audiences feet.... leaving you to stand and bow satisfied. It's about the work. Your words, your notes...They don't matter. The only thing that matters is the feelings that waves between the colors of the vivid imagination of those that aren't looking for you, but themselves in your work. Writing about love is like music in that way. In the way that it doesn't matter if your work doesn't do your feelings, your thoughts justice. Not fully-but that what ever you try to express will reach who ever stopped to read, to listen, for a sec, a moment, a minuet, hours. Even if your feelings are entirely hard to push through, something from that... from you... will always be felt from the other side. Big or small, it's always felt. Love is no "one thing," but I will always call it beautiful. Love is no "one shade...color", but listening to Yiruma .. for just this moment..... it could be indigo. A color, so deep, you can feel it wrap around you when you look at it, so beautiful that when he plays it- he makes me want to cry. Right now, it could be indigo.... it could be. That's why I write about love, because I know what it could be. Writing about love is like music, it doesn't matter what I write, it only matters that you feel something when my works shown to you. Writing about love is like spilling gallons of indigo paint across the walls, covering them completely, and sitting surrounded in it. Writing about love...I can only hope that you've felt the these words, his notes and the touch of my brush... until I write again.