Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

into the wildinto the wild-2into the wild-3

As always the pictures featured in my moodboard are collected over on Pinterest, Tumblr and instagram. I don’t know a lot of the origins but a couple are saved from Izobel over on instagram. I’ve followed her for a long while and adore her feed, honestly there are some stunning pictures and a very unique collection of style, music and reads.

You, a fiesty vessel between bloated suits on streets that crack under the pressure of the men that built them. You’re not weary from the shadows cast by vast pillars that crowd you in but you gnaw at the already broken skin at your fingertips in regards to a more cosmic anxiety. Limitless guitar riffs and lyrics echo in the chasm of dreary life surrounding you, a comfort against the otherwise hallow sirens and cacophony of morbid conversation. Heavy black boots clomp between the shoddy tap of designer stilettos and patter of a “gentleman’s” best brogues. That “gentleman” tosses you a sleazy quirk of withering lips, the stare you know he holds is hidden from view, sunglasses shielding the privilege of that male gaze. You sneer with red painted lips, no haste as you saunter past him.

You’re late for work…again. But the coffee’s will flow regardless, you’re sure. Your lack of enthusiasm already has you on the bosses blacklist anyways. It’s a matter of time before he tells you to “Do one” and you know in your heart of hearts you won’t be mad about it. Your very existence is an expletive in his well routined life. He forgot what youthful hunger was years ago, let that pressing control of an ordinary life seep in. You do well to hold onto your daydreams, reliving that acoustic set in a grotty bar in Camden a few evenings ago. The less than stellar turn out and your muck up on the first chorus smoothed out in your visions of music video’s and sell out arena shows, all on lock somewhere in your dreamers mind for when he tells you you’re useless for the third time. But work exists only in those four walls, when closing arrives you lock the door, with all it’s demeaning shut in behind you, and head into the still festering city streets for a while. Used record stores and the irony of more cafes, like the one you slave in, occupy the hours before “home” time.

‘Home’ is a small closet room, the closest to affordable you can get in this rich mans city. A single bed from childhood, a diy clothing rail and second hand chest of drawers overfill the space. But there’s a lock on the door and a huge window to let in the daylight, and a shabby little corner where your crosley lives, a magazine turned record stand beside it. You’ll plug in your headphones to appease your neighbour Benji and his complacency with the meagre sounds of drunk yells and busy clattering of pots and pans, you zone into the melodies and pick apart poetry well into the night. If the mood strikes you pluck your own riffs and settle your chaos into the scribbles of a song. Patience young thing, your struggle is your soundcheck and your encore is rising.

This mini mix features some of my most favourited artists (The Horrors, Slowdive, The Jesus and Mary Chain) and grazes over the shoegaze genre without being too overwhelming. Pretty sounds, dreamy sounds, resonating sounds. All of the sound play with beautiful lyrics to boot. A lot of the tracks remind me of my later teen years when I was never without my headphones, completely devoted to my record collection and writing god awful lyrics. 

Light and Love, N x

Author: nikki

In a constant existential crisis, dipping me toe in everything, trying me best.

2 thoughts on “Moods, Rhythms, Prose…”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s