Mourning with Cloud in it

  Memories. That's what we all have left at the end of the day, na? Everyone, everyone important has always said this to me. And these memories live using mediums like chairs, boxes, trees, cats. For me, it's the song through which each memory lives. Each memory, imbibed into certain songs. Each individual, each individual who matters has a song tag beside them, in my brain. Now these songs, I'm generally fond of most of them. I might not listen to them, but when I do, I feel so good. But good is not so good sometimes for me. Hence I avoid certain songs, but I never manage to gather enough guts to delete those songs from the hard disk, or from my playlist, because they have been imbibed in my brain like wires into electronic chips.
  Now there is this one specific song, which I'm really scared to listen, but I do always end up listening to it none the less. It's this song, y'know, an instrumental piece, just a single piano. And when it starts playing, I launch into an overdrive, image, one single, disturbing image lingers inside my head for what seems to be an eternity, but is actually just a few minutes. When I wake up again, I always end up cursing myself for my own weak, tender, even callous mind, letting my soggy eyes look straight into that cauldron of memories.
  The images, what they are, you ask? They aren't much, just a cloudy evening, with a purple sky, and clouds hanging in the distance over skyscrapers like an iridescent crown, changing their colour every few minutes from orange to brown to lilac and back to dusty orange. An empty, dusty road four storeys below, basking in their orange glory of loneliness. Sound of the rustling leaves of giant trees getting mistletoed by suburb bound trains of a daylong struggle, barking dogs in the distance getting into barking dog fights. And high above all this, like Olympian ancients, two teenagers sitting and getting absorbed in the "Nuvole Bianche", white clouds surrounding them. This is the image. And for you it might not sound much, but for me it is something of the likes of a psychic seductress, suddenly bringing forth a certain age of mine before my eyes, making me think and feel and be sad like I was then. This me, is not me.
  And so I decide for the umpteenth time never again to set my sight on that song again, only to disavow my own rule and go back to it later again. I think I know who my pied piper is. Songs. Songs like these, and songs in general. Songs, and memories.