Yellow

In August, employees at the bar Changes, in Seattle, had to break up a karaoke-night attack by a woman on a man who was singing the Coldplay song "Yellow." The woman had shouted, "Oh, no, not that song. I can't stand that song." She charged the stage, screamed at the man and shoved him (and it eventually took four men to hold her for the police). [Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 8-9-07]

...X...

Love me, or Love me not. As if you had a choice.

The clock strikes midnight but the dress doesn't disintegrate into rags, the limousines don't swell into ripened gourds, and the chauffeurs don't scurry away on the paws of mice. The prince doesn't need to chase after the girl, not when they are lying on side by side on a bed of daisies watching the planes masquerade among the stars. Look at the stars, he says. Look how they shine for you.

The smoke trails from her lips as she exhales. The cigarette glows like a sneer in the darkness.

But of course, it's all in my head. You don't know me. You never did. I burn for you in degrees of Kelvin, but a billion miles away, you raise your head towards the sky and see yet another celestial speck trying her hardest to stand out against the starry night. One in a million. One in a billion. And even with everything you do when I am around, there is no indication that you notice the burning agony of the star at all.

The dimness of the room makes her feel nauseous. She wants to throw up. Expel the garbage inside.

I did not know how to react when you came along, a person born anew with confidence interwoven into his sinews and rebellion embedded in his skin like an unclean wound. But that was when you still acknowledged me, wasn't it? There is a ball of dust and particles, yes you can see that. Yes, you see the chemical reaction -- memories of the slightest looks in her direction, the fleeting conversations -- a nuclear fusion exploding in bursts of tormented passion, jolts of light. But you cannot feel. I wrote a song for you once. There was a lonely architect who built and sculpted an entire labyrinth crafted from vignettes and poetry. The foolish architect buried her heart at the center of the maze. Perhaps the hero will come; perhaps he will slay the Minotaur clawing away at her insides. Relieve her from the dread of knowing but not knowing.

Her drink remains untouched. She'd briefly entertained the cliched notion of "drowning her sorrows away" but that would have been foolish. She'd only be in a worse mood later.

But you are not a star, transfixed in one place as the others pass on by. No one waits in this world. And now, all the things you do mean nothing more than our lives here on this planet. We come and go; we live and die. Your skin -- unblemished and polished like marble -- will one day disintegrate at the slightest touch. Your skin and bones, formed of stardust, will return to their former selves and turn into something beautiful.

The singer steps off the stage amidst good-natured applause. He had been decent. None of the nasal whining, none of the raspy growling that reminded her of a dying, feral animal clawing for its last breath.

You turn your back to me. And yet you know, you know I love you so. You know I love you so.

She pays no attention as another man steps into the spotlight. Her head feels like shit. She should have gone back home, perhaps done something productive. She stands up, preparing to leave, when the familiar chords envelop the room and slither around her throat. She cannot breathe.

I still remember. You were there that one night. I hadn't expected you to see you in my house at all. Last I heard, you were oceans away on the other side of the world. And here you are, sitting on the carpet with my brother's guitar cradled in your arms. And that melody, those lyrics, those chords. I still remember.

"OH, NO, NOT THAT SONG. I CAN'T STAND THAT SONG."

I would have swam across, I would have jumped across the ocean for you. But what could I have done? There was nothing to do that could change your mind. They never told me how long you would be gone. I had assumed you were never coming back.

She claws her way to the stage. Anything to turn the music off. Anything to prevent the repressed memories from bubbling back to the surface. Her body no longer functions consciously as she unleashes years of anger and frustration in a torrent of violence, like a wounded animal snapping and snarling in self-defense.

Maybe if I drew a line. If I drew a line for you separating me and you, would you look at me in the eye again? Cut along the dotted line and split my heart in two. Whatever it takes, anything to bring you back to me -- I would have done it all for you.

She is blind. Something hot, something wet clings to her eyes, and she cannot see. She hears shouts and cries -- who is making all the noise? Who is the one screaming, wailing as if being burned alive?

For you, I'd bleed myself dry.
For you, I'd bleed myself dry.

She feels heavy pressure on her arms, attempting to pin her down and hold her still. She tries to break free, but each time, they pin her down even tighter, until she can no longer move.

It's true.
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine

The sirens finally cease their wailing. As they drag her out of the building, she looks up into the sky. The stars -- hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions of them -- all look exactly the same to us on this earth. One will die; another will take its place. Dispensable. Forgettable.

Hey you. Tell me, what happens to a star when it dies? Will it incinerate everything around in a colossal explosion?

Or will it silently collapse in on itself, a victim of its own flame -- burning and burning until it has burned itself out?

Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things you do.