XI: Time Capsule I: Euphoria from the Watchtower

I remember the many times I feel a huge dark cloud above my head – the times that depression is creeping on my skin. And I remember the many times I fought those feeling by spending quality time with my family and friends or just do the things that I love doing. Lately though it has been difficult for me to get rid of my worries, so I have to keep on going. I have to keep getting busy.

And this is where I really crave for music from my favorite band the Foo Fighters, particularly the song “Next Year.” It has been my constant “Now Playing” for days not only because it is one of Foo Fighters’ most underrated songs (in my opinion at least) but also because of one significant moment when I stopped worrying and started… singing.

March 10, 2010

I remember that very night when everyone in the Falcon Campus was busy preparing their final projects and I don’t have that many classes to deal with. All I care about is getting by and meeting with Dr. C again. (Dr. C is a part-time professor who became a a very good friend of mine.)

That night was no expection. I went up the 14th floor and to the Watchtower to check up on how Dr. C is doing. Being assigned as a course adviser, he is tasked to approve or disapprove each student’s course for next term.100 students though? That sounds awful.

But when I approached him, and he looked like he only went to school just to slack around. He is one jolly person, but he seems more hyper and happier than usual. And then I looked at the table. There’s his laptop, his trusted large speakers, 5 boxes of pizza and a few 1L softfdrinks. And then I saw label on the pizza boxes: “FOR DR. C AND (REDACTED) ONLY”.

“Oh my God. He really did it.” We talked about this in January – multiple pizza boxes labeled with the exact words. And he really did it.

“Sit down, man. Let’s just relax.”

And so I did. I sat down, had my first slice and relaxed. He had his first slice, his face still seems free from worry of checking 5-6 courses per student.

“How are you?” He asked. “I feel…” I really don’t know what to say, but then I said, “…great!” I didn’t think when I said that, but it felt good. Really good. I didn’t have to ask how he was; I can tell it from his grinning bald head.

Then we talked about life and pop culture while we were savouring several slices of meat-and-cheese and chugging on Sprite. That night I learned that he collects any variations of shoes and that he is also fond of Tori Amos, while he learned about my thoughts on How I Met Your Mother so far plus my knack for Chuck Taylor pairs. I also lost count on how many slices we had. But that didn’t matter.

And then “Next Year” suddenly played. That song from the Foos’ third album There is Nothing Left to Lose is quite a mellow gift to the ears. But on that very night, the first seconds of the gentle guitar strumming gave me the most chilling of goosebumps—the good kind of goosebumps. And without thinking, I started singing along.

“I’m in the sky tonight,
there I can keep by your side.”

The moment I sang the first few lines, it feels like I’m going to float with joy, my goosebumps intact while euphoria omits from my electrified skin. Dr. C can also tell how happy I was, and he gladly sang along with me.

Our voices blended in harmony with Mr. Grohl, and thank goodness we didn’t butchered the simple-yet-heartfelt lyrics. I’m pretty sure the band will be proud of our duet. And in those 4 minutes and 38 seconds of bliss, my entire world looked better. Everything was right. Everything feels really good. “Next Year”, with the sing-along and pizza and drinks, gave me positivity and healing that is not too driven with angst like “Best of You”. And that feels good for my soul.

And that is why I kept playing “Next Year” the past several days: the positivity and healing it gives. And that is something I really need now.


Ipi-nublish ni

The Deranged Writer

The Deranged Writer deals with interactive designs by day and fiction-infused realities by night. Or maybe all day. And he loves talking in the third person.

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