There’s always that one band you never get bored of. You listen to it all day, and you never seem to get tired of it. There’s always that one band that makes you calm when you’re angry. It makes you lose your beastly self and you suddenly become as calm as a Buddhist meditating for inner peace. There’s always that one band that has a special song that makes you cry for no reason. That one song you listen to and it makes your heart beat faster, gives you goosebumps, makes you happy and sad at the same time. You cry because it a masterpiece, it is a gift for the world, a piece of art. Their music sounds as heavenly as a choir chanting “Hark The Herald” in the church during Christmas, with the rays of sunlight focused on the conductor as his eyes tear up each second he moves his hand.
That one band for me is Pink Floyd. Their music clears my head. I stop worrying. I forget. I meditate. I become happy.
Like a new born child crying in the arms of their mother, I tear up every time I listen to Wish You Were Here. Not because it reminds me of anything or anyone, but simply, just because. Like an addict craving for more recreational drugs, I need Pink Floyd. It is my source of energy. My oxygen. Pink Floyd is my narcotic.
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.