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This one’s for Cath : ) seeing as she loves this song and was the first to recommend it to me.

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I’m particularly proud of this one. Why? Because I wrote the lyrics myself (back in 2009, after translating the original Japanese lyrics), sang the backing vocals myself, and added the rain thingy at the start and the end :D

Because of all of this, I’m more than simply interested to hear what you think :) Comments are very much appreciated.

Download MP3.

Download MP3.

Download MP3

Download MP3

Download MP3.

Lock

They would close and lock the door, echoing a loud ‘click’ through the room. But the sound would be brutally interrupted by your wheezing, proof you were still catching your breath, unable to grasp what had just happened.

If you were lucky, they had brought you in during daytime. That way, once you had calmed down, you would be able to take in your surroundings, even if the only light came from the square, barred opening near the ceiling.

If you were unlucky, it would be in the dead of night. Then, you would first stumble around your new, alien abode on your bare feet, until they’d hit a sticky, damp spot. You would step back, fervently hoping it was the direction you had come from, and sit down, hugging your knees.

In the morning, you would discover a light switch near the steel door, and you’d count yourself lucky that you were in too much of a state the night before to start groping for it; the walls were dangerously rough, and to the left of the switch the concrete had crumbled, wires out in the open.

The following night, you would forget to flip the switch in time; you had spent your day restlessly sitting on the cleanest spot on the floor, the linoleum torn or stained in other places, trying to gaze through the walls and picture the world outside. And when you realised that darkness had descended, you would switch on the light, only to find out the bulb hanging from the high ceiling needed at least half an hour to warm up. You could never be sure, though; you didn’t know the time. You would spend these minutes shivering, imagining invisible walls closing up on you, monsters and beasts in every corner, things you thought were part of your childhood, when you still feared they were conspiring against you in your closet.

The concrete walls were bare, apart from random pleas others had written in rusty smears. A couple of days into your imprisonment, you would hear the same pleas outside, drifting towards you from that opening near the ceiling. Adrenalin would surge through your veins, forcing you to bang the door in rage until your fists covered it in blood.

In vain, you would search the walls for cracks, for hidden shutters, certain that you were able to outwit their criminal masterminds, but you were rewarded only with a pungent stench that hovered near the corners.

If you had been conscious the night they brought you in, you would know the garden they had dragged you through was vast and box-bordered, its only opening closed off by a high and tightly woven fence. The building was even worse; it was shaped like a cube, featuring few to no windows. It was a mass of impassable greyness.

You would stand no chance. No chance at all.

A feeling of submission would finally settle in your stomach.

They had won.

Meiyo

Old Books, Wet Paint, and Incense

Everybody has their own scent; their own fragrance; an aroma they carry with them all the time, no matter how many showers they take; their own personal perfume, not sold by any perfumer anywhere in the world.

My mother, for example, carries with her the smell of detergent, deeply intertwined with that of chocolate cake. I love her for it; when I was little, I was always able to find her, regardless of the size of the shopping mall I lost her in.

An inky aroma, deeply embedded in his slightly wrinkled skin, is spread by my father whenever he enters a room. I always expect other people to be repelled by its tangy nature, but no one ever winces. Now, whenever a similar scent fills my nostrils, I am reminded of his calligraphies, covering every inch of his study and often even his hands.

To my great annoyance, I cannot remember what my sister smells like. Only when she moved abroad last year, did I realise I had never really been able to get close enough to actually know her. Not the way I know Anya, anyway.

For my best friend smells like flowers on a sunny April morning. And fresh soil. Like that one time she invited me to her gardening class; I remember her scent following me around all day, even after we had long parted ways. Peter is comparable but different; he always reeks of dirt and sweat, the result of daily football practice. Still, it never bothers me. Numerous times have I asked myself whether the earthy scent runs in their family, or if it’s just the twins sporting it, but I have never been lucky enough to meet their relatives.

Some people’s scents do appal me, of course; I avoid the smokers, the garlic-eaters, the sewer workers, and the chemists. But most attract me like candlelight does moths; I find my way to the sweet chestnut sellers, the librarians, the gardeners, and the people protecting their skin with sun block.

Kaelan’s is probably the best scent in the whole wide world. His is a mix of all different kinds of things, spread over his body from head to toe, each one claiming their own time to become the most intense; amber, spices, freshly baked bread, cedar wood, rain, oranges, coffee beans, pine needles and resin, Crayola crayons, mown grass, crispy shirts drying in a hot summer breeze. And every day, I discover a new one.

I always wonder what I smell like, what my personal fragrance is. I like to think of myself as a good mix of old books, wet paint, and incense. Of summer, winter, spring, and autumn, all in one. Of chocolate-chip cookies, lemon juice, lavender, and a cosy hearth fire. A mix of all the people I so dearly love, whom I want to resemble. But not even my own mother can tell me. Sometimes I press my nose into my pillow, inhaling deeply, but all I ever meet is the faint trace of my Kenzo Amour perfume, mixed with the stale odour so recognisable for pillows. A smell I cannot—or will not—identify my person with.

Meiyo

So anyway, if you’re interested in what I’m up to, take a look over at Meiyo @ LiveJournal.