After the Curtain

I miss Yakima. It is something that I resisted letting on before I moved to my school in Seattle, and remains something that I am almost embarassed to admit now.

Certainly, there were moments of feeling utterly suffocated in that town. I know that I did not belong there (the verdict is still out on whether I belong in Seattle, even) but it was still the town that I grew up in and knew the best. There were parts I loved as passionately as the bits and pieces and sprawling objects that I hated.

I miss my family.

I miss my friends.

I miss the way that I could always see almost all of the sky, no matter where I was.

I miss walking around the area by Franklin Park, the quietness and the trees and the songs I’d blare through my headphones so I didn’t feel completely alone.

I miss driving with my friends and listening to Beirut.

We had discovered a year or so back that Beirut fit our town perfectly. Or this could just be me projecting my memories over their words.

Beirut sounded like quiet and like dust and like the sun and the sky reaching out towards mountains you could see from miles and miles away.

Beirut sounded like the roads in West Valley at night, the dark and the silence and the odd romanticism of it all.

Beirut sounded like clashing cultures and sad people. And funny ones, too.

Beirut had a sound that reminded of poverty and still pushed your heart forward in your chest because the music was beautiful.

Listening to Beirut while driving through Yakima was matching the music to the movements, seeing our town through a movie lens and trying not to admit that we really felt that way.

Beirut is music made by a boy from the Midwest who is only a few years older than me. He dropped out of school, unlike us. He backpacked through Europe, which my friends and I totally did not do (though Mina went to Turkey and I will go to Mexico.) He came home and made beautiful music which is the direct transcription of what I’m sure he feels within himself.

It’s the kind of music that sounds like a transcript of a soul.

So perhaps we did not travel, perhaps we merely left our homes to a city that felt more appropriate and less oppressive. A city that is still louder and bigger and utterly terrifying.

But Beirut still soars the way we do within ourselves.

I listen to Beirut to come home.


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