I remember first listening to ‘My Darling Sara’, sitting on a train with tears silently welling up and gliding from beneath closed eyes.
I remember the simple words that had been woven with a depth of emotion, some filled with happiness, some with sadness and others too complex that trying to define them would be an injustice.
I remember the pauses, the silence, the absence of words that perhaps said more than words ever could.
I remember how the poem spoke of love, loss and simply trying for the value of sweat is greater than that of tears. The different metaphors and allegories conveyed those thoughts and themes perfectly.
I remember trying to understand; desperately trying to glean the real meaning behind the words that had been so carefully strung together in a masterly fashion.
I remember realising that perhaps this was the beauty of it; maybe you could take different perspectives and it did not matter which one because each meaning holds its own value.
I remember thinking in that moment that just maybe not everything was supposed to be analysed and understood, some things are just meant to be felt.
I remember feeling a pang of regret afterwards, not anticipating the bubbling up of emotions that had long been buried deep. Yet simultaneously feeling regret of never experiencing this for the first time again.
I remember first listening to ‘My Darling Sara’.