Music is a portal to memories. Tonight on the way back from the airport, I listened, again, to Lucid Dreams, track 10 on the Franz Ferdinand album Tonight. It’s a long track, over 7 minutes, which resolves into a long jangling riff described on Wikipedia as “a huge jam (revolving around an arpeggiated synth line created on a Minimoog Voyager)”.
Lucid Dreams is October 2009. It’s the silver Polo I hired after my husband and I agreed to get divorced. It’s drives to Rooihuiskraal to meet the hot retired shrink who left the NHS at the age of 34 to teach step aerobics and write a novel inspired by Ayn Rand. It’s suicide threats and threats of lawsuits from my ex. It’s the metallic taste of despair. It’s the beginning of the long dark trek through hell: first one year, followed by another, and another.
I have so much to be happy about now. So much has changed, but beneath it all lurks the sadness I can’t ever escape. I once wrote that I thought that the sadness had gone to the marrow, that I was no longer capable of feeling anything else.
Those memories are fresh still. They will never not be there. I could so easily end up there again, and I am terrified because I can’t bear the thought of going through it all again.
I just can’t.