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Weekly Wits

Editor Speaketh

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Eyelids droop down. One of those ennui filled days, one of those days where I wish I were anywhere but here- trapped in this mundane-ness with a deep sense of absolutely nothing. There’s a void I can’t seem to fill. I know how to, just don’t have the means. No solution seems appropriate, exact. I have a million things to do, but can’t point at where to start.

Then it plays. I stop what I’m doing. It’s as if my body has magically transformed into a svelte, hypnotized mass of movement. The sound of the guitar transports me into a world far from the nagging voice of my surroundings.


The melody connects my soul to a world I can’t describe with words, but I have the freedom to feel it in my head. The world is red and it is raining. The only sound, is the sound of music, and there’s me. I move, move with the melody. He’s saying things I cannot comprehend but I know. I know what he means.

“Come feed the rain, ’cause I’m thirsty for your love, dancing underneath the skies of lust, please feed the rain, ’cause without you, my life is nothing but this carnival of rust”

I have the freedom. The freedom to dance, to sing, to move, to transcend into a world that seems magical and enchanting. The only image in my mind is of a body dancing, frivolously moving to the beats and engulfing the melody, the music as if it were a breath of air. Fresh air.
The body is me, I am the body. Music takes me places. I can’t seem to describe it with words. If only I could, if only I could convey what is happening to me.

Gradually, the beat reduces; the melody becomes a faint sound.
“Don’t walk away, when the word is burning.”


Without music I fall, “where enough is not the same it was before”.

With music, we have the freedom. The freedom to live, the freedom the exhibit. The freedom to express, to interpret.

We have the freedom to be.

Journalism has been called the “first rough draft of history”. D.U.B may be termed as the first rough draft of DU history. Freedom to Express.

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