L'orage explosa aux alentours de quatre heures et quart. D'abord on entendit la foudre, un bruit assourdissant qui dura plusieurs secondes et fit peur au chat qui alla sa cacher dans une des chambres à l'étage. Je suis dans la cuisine, la soupière propre tout droit sortie du lave-vaisselle à la main. Mes membres se figent, tandis que mes yeux se tournent vers le ciel.

Peu à peu, la pluie s'intensifie. Les fenêtres sont grandes ouvertes, l'odeur qui s'était propager dans toute la maison pendant la matinée rendit cet instant phénoménal. Rien n'était plus majestueux, que de voire la nature dans toute sa férocité, cherchée à étendre sa présence sur ces constructions humaines, blanches et rectangulaires. Il semblait que le ciel avait tenu à interrompre le spectacle quotidien et s'éfforcer à abattre son décor en carton peint.

Le torrent de pluie était si enragé, qu'il s'était vite transformé en brume épaisse, à n'en plus voire la cîme de nos maigres arbres urbains. Quelques minutes plus tard, comme si la colère du ciel l'avait épuisé, la pluie s'apaisa pour remplacer l'assourdissement par le doux son d'une fontaine. Je regarde cette danse dans l'émerveillement le plus complet, n'ayant auparavant soupçonné le pouvoir de l'orage à occupér mes pensées, ne serait-ce qu'un instant.

Writing, I'm sure, is for many writers a clever trick to avoid having to bottle up troubled inner thoughts, by spewing and weaving them into properly formed prose, regardless how bad it sounds raw or with work. I've given up on writing for longer than I should have for the latter, and have gone back into the game for the former. I've gathered up my work through the years in poem collection and journals, in the hope I would one day have the courage to let them seep out into the world. And I've recently had to face the crushing pressure of university, rediscovering oneself in a world where so many are competing for a chance to shine, of finding meaning when one realises there is no great goal for life in this universe. Thus, here I share these antiquities of my childhood, juxtaposed to the challenges of my present as a young adult.

I felt in love with Passenger the moment I explored their other titles beyond Let her go. If there is one standard for good music that I hold true through the passage of time, it's originality. Intriguing melody, narrative and poetic lyrics. Usually as unambiguous as language can be, song lyrics, especially for love songs, can be devoid of any creativity to the extreme of repeating the same words over and over but changing the tune. When I read Passenger's lyrics, the melody resonates within me whether I called on it or not. It's very often a simple, but playfully harmonious ensemble, with a powerful life message shining through this apparent plainness. This makes for the best quotes: "Oh son, you may be lost in more ways than one/But I have a feeling that it's more fun/Than knowing exactly where you are" This was my senior yearbook quote. Another one: "Ain't it funny how the kids walk by/They'll do anything to make themselves look older/While the women spend their money/On anything that makes them look young" This idea comes back again in another song called I hate: "Just grow old with grace/Have you seen Cher's face/It looks like it's been hit by a truck" Ok, I agree, this was gratuitous pettiness, but used for comical effect. Go check out the song, you'll see what I mean. One last one: "Don't you cry for the lost/Smile for the living/Get what you need and give what you're given/Life's for the living so live it/Or you're better off dead". The title is in the chorus. That's another great one, the repetition of the chorus is given a reason to exist within the narrative of the song in a truly fluid manner, and it's profoundly enjoyable to listen to. I hope I've given a bit more visibility to some lesser-known songs of the group Passenger beyond the very famous hit Let her go. Enjoy!