Never Alone
VANESSA MELINA VÁZQUEZ VEGA
WRITING WELL
Never alone
A blaring sound was shaking into that speedy white escort racing on the road. His hands were thumbing the steering wheel while “hold the line” was on the radio .The volume was louder every second, but Victor was careless about exploding his car speakers. Adrenaline went through his body as a drug running into his veins, he was immersed in a daydream about his youth, the old days spent in concerts and parties, that specific adventure at 15 years old when he escaped unexpectedly from home to the Avándaro music festival had changed his life forever. When the song was over; a smile of released appeared on his face as if he lived that brainstorm of memories again.
Victor and I loved to share our life experiences through one or another song, he was of course the wiser talking about music; bands like, Deep purple, Black Sabbath ,Yes, Chicago, Pink Floyd and Rolling Stones were the topic of every weekend . A photo album in his mind projected a whole story about one song and sometimes I once could feel also that delightful sensation in my ears while we were listening some Bossanova music outside a bar in Acapulco. Each instrument of the song was perfectly described by this megalomaniac man. I even have a Victor´s one-hundred-top ten list of songs he considered essential to his everyday life.
A guitar on the sofa was found next to his vinyl records and songs like “magic”, “stairway to heaven”, “Us and them” and “forever young” were never listened anymore. One day in June he closed his eyes forever; taking the rhythm with him on his eternal journey. He left his bass voiceless and I never felt so alone.
My mutilated soul mourned his absence, one second seemed to be an hour when I tried to think about what had happened ;thousand of questions without an answer and just one
WRITING WELL
Never alone
A blaring sound was shaking into that speedy white escort racing on the road. His hands were thumbing the steering wheel while “hold the line” was on the radio .The volume was louder every second, but Victor was careless about exploding his car speakers. Adrenaline went through his body as a drug running into his veins, he was immersed in a daydream about his youth, the old days spent in concerts and parties, that specific adventure at 15 years old when he escaped unexpectedly from home to the Avándaro music festival had changed his life forever. When the song was over; a smile of released appeared on his face as if he lived that brainstorm of memories again.
Victor and I loved to share our life experiences through one or another song, he was of course the wiser talking about music; bands like, Deep purple, Black Sabbath ,Yes, Chicago, Pink Floyd and Rolling Stones were the topic of every weekend . A photo album in his mind projected a whole story about one song and sometimes I once could feel also that delightful sensation in my ears while we were listening some Bossanova music outside a bar in Acapulco. Each instrument of the song was perfectly described by this megalomaniac man. I even have a Victor´s one-hundred-top ten list of songs he considered essential to his everyday life.
A guitar on the sofa was found next to his vinyl records and songs like “magic”, “stairway to heaven”, “Us and them” and “forever young” were never listened anymore. One day in June he closed his eyes forever; taking the rhythm with him on his eternal journey. He left his bass voiceless and I never felt so alone.
My mutilated soul mourned his absence, one second seemed to be an hour when I tried to think about what had happened ;thousand of questions without an answer and just one