1. |
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Darkness invades me, inside and out.
I lit my last match and soon it will go out, leaving only the pungent smell of smoke that enters your nose and makes your eyes burn in that brief flash of light.
Along the road I walk, lined with luminous edges, not seeing where I tread, but it’s kind and pleasant road, never straight, but full of twists and turns, some large, some narrow.
I will not wait for you.
I go where no-one waits and where none expect me.
I go the way of the dazzling dark and I'll stop where the emptiness, echoing my name, will fill the space that was yours.
Now, I close my eyes to see where I finish when the road ends and the open space gapes wide.
Raining light will fall upon this road and turn off the luminous edges, at intervals illuminating my disarming madness.
The match has burned out.
I slap back the darkness that bathes my eyes and withers my soul.
I fall
(Kathya West)
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2. |
I Run
06:33
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In this shallow, showy life, I shun to shield myself from wasting time and from misunderstandings. Alone, I walk slowly when crushed by the crowd and I run when on a deserted road warmed by the only coat I have, my coat is my flesh.
In the reeking, oh so predictable crowd, I seek to make space, aim not to break my stride. Head held high, I rend looks from the blind and deliver distinct and deafening dins for the deaf.
I greet and gather meaningless nods, the approval of fools and the stench of life unlived.
It takes courage to go where you already are.
I go and leave behind those who shout and curse behind my back, as I turn my back.
I go slowly where I am and where I remain, ever changing in my space.
They go the way of no return, a way many have trod, where there is no space to paint, where one is weary walking downhill.
I leave, but I return to where everything is I.
Mine is a torrid, deserted road, my space is empty and full of me.
And now I run.
My road is endless, a miserable life is too short to cover it all.
Barefoot, to feel the pain inflicted by stones and to enjoy the soft spaces lush with grass. I run.
(Kathya West)
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3. |
The Rape
06:15
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Still. I have always been still.
My body is still and my mind is far from itself.
The overwhelming, cold, sharp wind has come.
My soul bleeds in my flesh, my mind crumbles in the wind.
Still, waiting for it to happen, for it to come, to overthrow me inside, raping and violating my truth.
Binding my eyes, I trampled over my body.
Opening my legs I tore out my heart, tainting my pure concession.
I called up all that was calm and in its proper place.
And now it will not stop, and everything will be conveyed into its unstoppable and unjustifiable vortex. Everything will be in a new and unsuitable place.
I will waste a lot of time looking for the right thing in the wrong place and I will have little time to find the wrong thing in the right place.
Order in disorder.
I am the centre.
With my legs drawn up I seek refuge.
With arms flung wide I try to take back what was always mine.
But what has always belonged to me, I have never had.
There is no cure for my wounds.
There is no absolution for my rape.
I trace my journey with my blood.
I die with what belongs to me.
(Kathya West)
credits
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4. |
A Sliver Of Shade
05:16
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I need a sword of sunlight
To slice through this sliver of shade
That spreads when I coil up.
I need a teardrop of moon
To bathe me when that sword of sunlight
Burns me and turns me to dust.
I need that sliver of shade
To cool that sword of sunlight
So I turn not to dust in that teardrop of moon.
I am that sliver of shade that expands
When the sword of sunlight envelops
That teardrop of moon that makes me alive
(Kathya West)
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5. |
Recluse (reprise)
01:05
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6. |
The Bride Wore Black
09:45
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I run, not as fast as my mind, mindful I can never reach the place where you found refuge, where you lie. I will never reach you lest I give up the ghost.
I will get there slowly like a bride, dressed in doubt until I hear that “Yes, I do” - with the eyes of who seeks confirmation of the presence of her spouse at the altar.
As beautiful as the time you carry away with you.
Yes, I will come slowly, like a bride, dressed in doubt until I see your grave, staring in disbelief as if seeking to awaken from a nightmare, not seeking confirmation of any presence.
As beautiful as the time I carry away with me.
I will have no bouquet of flowers, the flowers fade. In my hands the desperation of a woman who loves you and the weakness of a young girl not satisfied with mere memories.
Despair sinks but never goes away. Now, I'm suspended on that thin line that separates my light from my darkness, those you once knew and loved.
Ready to accept your non return, I embrace the idea I had of happiness you sought so badly to deny. Today I will boldly hold on to it with rage.
I will bring you nothing you can touch.
Do you still have hands? With those you held me tight and then always left me, without asking. Each thing at the right time.
Nothing you can listen to.
Do you still have ears? With those you listened to your music, now also mine, in every note and every word.
Will you still read down there?
Will you still have eyes? I love you even without eyes, I return even without them. You did not look with those eyes. I hear you with the love and the hatred of those mocked by fate. I see you through the
eyes of a blind man, now. Take me down with you for a night of sleep, I’ll be awake.
I am your light. In five years, will you remember? Yes, you and I will do great things together, but not here, right?
In heaven, will you still want anything to do with me?
(Kathya West)
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7. |
Not Threads Of Silk
05:05
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They are not threads of silk, but tendons torn from life.
They are not threads of silk though they may seem so to your unseeing eyes.
They are endless thick lines with no beginning and no end.
They are not threads of silk, but the frayed cords of inexhaustible screams.
They are threads of glue fixed to a present past.
They are threads of silk for you who do not exist.
They are not threads of silk, but threads of thirst
(Kathya West)
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8. |
Recluse
06:55
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An unknown hand has stretched beyond my defenses, its colour known, the same colour as my time, the smell of my uncertainty, with uncourageous fingers.
I do not know where it came from, I do not know which prison freed it, I only know that it had something for me. I touched it, I wrapped myself round it and its flesh was consumed, leaving a still, cold skeleton.
In my hands the prelude of a love aborted.
I, confined in my freedom, sitting behind the bars of an open cell,
from the inside, I observe the to and fro of silence and indifference.
Handcuffed to my consistency forever...
This is my prison.
Deluded.
Here in this open cage, with high bars, I climb up to see everything from up high, and to feel moved once more.
Disappointed.
I’m sitting on top of you. I’m on my knees in front of you, but I’m higher. I’m stretched out in time.
I feel the first drops of rain, the first rays of sun, I breathe in the beginning, as always.
Excluded.
It was a long time since I touched that hand, it was a long time since a hand had raged so naturally hiding deception behind the heart, I see what is behind your eyes.
Freedom is a state of mind.
Included.
You leave and now that I have already left too and I’m already far away, much further away, I will never arrive.
I debase my dignity and base my freedom.
Recluse.
(Kathya West)
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9. |
Father
08:55
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You who escaped in the face of life, for you just any old life, created in a moment of ego.
Your escape championed the paths my soul would take, generating - deeply - the constant need and curiosity to look in the mirror; for me today, a mirror obscure.
I rode the crest of time without you and without she who confided in hope.
You who promised love to a barren, sterile mother,
you who built me a house of card that could not bear the inevitable storm,
you who gambled the odds with a fate for you turned to great glory.
Too early to think, too late to love the outcome of an error. Where were you father, when I was killed, once again, because of you! Where did you run to while I was born of that random womb.
Your big, strong hands, your deep and reassuring eyes, your masterful arms, were not for me, nor even for her.
For me, just the memory of a steel-cold world where my words echoed with the speed of thought,
for me, only a surrogate father bought half price on a day of a woman’s on-going weakness.
No privilege for the defenseless creature who paid the never-ending debts of conscience.
Is all this is for me, father, only for me?
Today, for you father there's no more a glorious life to live,
there’s the insistent gaze of the triumphant woman,
there’s an unsteady hand on your face,
there’s my soul’s unuttered word.
For you the blood and tears of who has never screamed your name.
Only for you, father, all this is for you!
Look at me, father, look at me now if you can, tell me what you see,
do not look down, do not dare utter a word, do not run away, looking back; it's time to walk now, looking ahead.
Now, it's time to ask me my name and who I am, it’s time to shine on that dark mirror.
You who ran away in the face of life, for you, just any old life.
My life.
Ask for forgiveness, father, forgiveness!
(Kathya West)
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Kathya West Milan, Italy
I was born in Milan from an Italian mother and american father.
I died on the
same day.
Art was born with me, an impulse, a survival instinct, an expressive need like music.
I am mainly a musician.
I play the voice.
My main source of inspiration is everything that moves me and puts in disharmony my emotions, my impulses that express themselves and elevate in every artistic form.
... more
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