I know a boy who is trying to keep himself together, trying to make a man of himself, trying to keep his band together, but I already said that: I said he was trying to keep himself together. When I say keep his band together, you should’ve read “he’s trying to keep himself together” for the second time. It’s a rock band, and he’s jazz, the best you’ve ever heard because it’s so desperate (don’t misconstrue: he isn’t desperate, his music is).
This one is a martyr, like all artists are, not the triers, the doers, the ones on pursuit, the ones with no Plan B, the ones whose core is not a heart, and lungs, and liver, but everyone’s suffering and you wonder: “How can his body endure it; how can one body store so much suffering?”
It becomes transformed, maybe, in its expulsion into sonic sorrow, and when the sound fades, sorrow with it. Remember the dying note. Remember its final axis: the very exact second sound meets silence. I want to live there; I’ve never known so much peace as the peace of that exact moment.
This is Colton’s gift. He’s just that good. He carries everyone’s burdens and transforms them. For that I’m grateful and I won’t stop saying thank you, for myself, and for everyone. In this case, I don’t mind speaking for everyone, even if they are too scared to say the depth of it, and all that comes out is a weasel: “Cool music, man” or “Oh my god I love your music” or whatever unoriginal sentence that could be said for any sound, any music, any band, but I don’t criticize them; no, they can’t say anything better; there isn’t any time; but with writing there is time. So I’m writing to Him.
Colton isn’t a tortured boy…most of the time (that’s how good he is). He feels the joy of transformation; I can see it. He’s like a string of copper, carrying the charge of lightening, transforming it into droplets of water: sometimes a thunderous rain, raging and destroying, and other times, the kind that the grass needs, and other times a sun shower, a phenomenon that defies god.
He tells me things with keys as if the piano was his alphabet. His piano doesn’t start with C and his piano has a Z. With this, he “writes” to me his love (don’t misconstrue: not his love for or of me). When we are alone, it is not the sound of suffering, it is the sound of being a boy, of playfulness. There is contentment and presence—he’s very good at that, at being present—and secrets he won’t ever allow himself to hear; I’ll hear it anyway.
I look too much like freedom: the kind he doesn’t have. He can play it when he is with me but only a few notes, because it’s not safe. He should know, if he reads this, that it’s coming (freedom), with or without me, and he should know, I’m never going to change that about me. My loyalty is not to him, but to freedom, and he can bask in it as much as he likes. When the time is right we can enjoy it together. For now he’s trying to get it on his own, to shape it out for himself. I want him to know that we don’t need each other for that but anyway, we both carry the world inside us transforming it: him with sound, me with signs.
Colton is the most selfish selfless person I know and I don’t blame him because he isn’t a man: he’s a hologram. Instead of light, he’s built of sound. I’ll let the sound wash over me as often as I can and wait my turn like the rest of us. I’ll wait until he’s a man; I’ll wait for him to fuse flesh and sound and for him to expend the world enough to leave room for himself.
I never know how to end speaking of him because it (endings) seem unjust; I’m unsure there will ever be one; I’m unsure.