It's like magic. When I play music that sound like they have come out of the gramophone, old and cranky and creaky, very old Hindi film music, strange sounds from the non-mainstream, not from the pretentious alternative; when I hear these sounds there is something in me flicks on.
A part of me that imagines scenes and places and people and hair and tinted glasses and shapely hands and lakes and towering mountains and breezing pines and shop lights and scents and sunlight glinting off windows...
How can I ignore or deny myself such strong visitations? This is either a very beautiful gift or a lifelong curse.
Have I been in the place in my dreams? Have I seen the houses and streets roamed to rubble by students and residents of the little town? Have I breathe the same air that Elijah breathes? Watched the dance of Deirdre's hair flicker against the bright refractions of sunlight off Lake Hira? Felt the cold clouds and mists as they make their march across the face of the mountains, green and silent?
Maybe I have.
I couldn't otherwise explain this constant visitation.