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...an applause ...a sigh ...a few words ...and that acoustic guitar played by a boy.
The stage, with lights, shadows, colors, candles, and flowers (orchids, orchids, and orchids), looks like a work of art, and the music made on that stage is a work of art.
The voice of that boy grips and caresses your stomach, and what he plays is a beacon in the dark.
The burning passion, the chilling desolation, the enthusiasm of a child, the weariness of an old man, the violence and the peace, the fire and the water, "a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido." To be or not to be, the music and the silence... life and death...
The boy on the stage clings to his guitar, sings, screams, lights the candle because sometimes it might go out, mocks himself, talks to the audience, shows himself as he is, without filters as he always has, "immersed in mud": "from diamonds nothing is born, from manure flowers bloom," but flowers are often trampled with a carelessness and superficiality that frightens.
Finding oneself alone strumming and humming "Pennyroyal Tea" can save a life.
Pick up a guitar, let the emotions flow, and close your eyes... can you imagine those candles? Can you feel those shadows and those lights? Can you see those flowers that on that stage will never be trampled? Can you feel life? That emotion you can experience by caressing and holding tight what you love?
If you can, start playing. And if you can't, play anyway, or sing... hold on to your passions and frailties... or dim the lights or turn them off completely and watch the Nirvana unplugged... surrender to this enchantment, to this limbo out of time and out of the world but which is inside you and keep it in your "heart-shaped box"... pulling it out whenever you need to feel alive, no matter how, but alive.
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