My goddess has risen.
Above the clouds, she appears in my dreams as a vibration, humming softly through the ancient scandinavian forest. I've been here before, but I don't remember when. I float through the sienna trees, amber highlights as vertical veins, waning moonlight, fallen needles on the sponge floor drinking softly, generating, pulsating. I expand as the humming surrounds my being, not sure where I end and it all begins. My being follows a faint single track up, up until I see her, my goddess, standing still as stone, vibrations washing her robe with the kind of mist that rises before aurora. It is more than singing. It is more than a song. It passes through me like a silver ghost, shivers through my body, breaking it apart. She is a siren in the woods, aphrodite, centered in a circle of growth, as booms dole from the rock and resonate inside every atom. She is adolescence incarnate, old as the earth and pure as truth. Simply ethereal, transcendentally complex, in her presence the trees become ash, ash become human, human evaporate to air and back again within one breath. Roaming the curvature of the earth, lamenting the loneliness of my stagnant physical existence, tortured by memory and the longing to embody a pure vibratory atmospheric essence, I've found home in her voice. I am inside her heart. It melts and mixes with rain. We are below the clouds, floating, drifting on the surface of the dawn.
After a three year hiatus, Lykke is back with what promises to be an equally if not more emotionally raw album than Wounded Rhymes, defining a genre that is hers alone, overcoming her angst and graciously sharing it with the human population. Is she an alien? Do we have a latent cosmic power like she? I will follow her like a pilgrim, basking in her other-wordly glow, to Paris if I have to, if not the sold out show in NYC.
Queen Bey Who? Long Live Lykke Li.
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