#power and control. music | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soratatakano · 1 month ago

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Descending Under

Will you let me take you on a walk through music?

This is not a story about Silco.

This is not a story about me.

This is a story about how much we need to feel that someone is there.

And that if you listen to the music - and something inside you vibrates - you are not alone.

Arctic Monkeys Do I Wanna Know

I guess I didn't want to know. Seriously.

When this popped into my head—because a friend talked me into writing a fic (even though I hadn’t finished the previous one—don’t remind me, the shame)—it started with Arctic Monkeys.

Oh, you don’t know how much I loved that song. I loved it. Still do.

But it hasn’t been number one in a long time.

It was the fuse, the motive, the temptation to go in with it… just—what?

Because while I may have had (okay, have) an unhealthy obsession with Silco, I’m not sure I ever saw myself with him.

More like beside him. Orbiting. Tethered, maybe.

I definitely wanted something from him.

Needed something.

But what?

Do I wanna know?

I think not.

It’s more interesting that way.

Safer, too.

She Wants Revenge Little Bit Harder Now

I created a character in which everyone can find something—or wave their hand and say, nah, not really.

But she is.

And she stays.

Because she’s nested too deep to be torn out. The roots go down too far. She’ll stay with me, just like the music does.

Music without which I can’t imagine creating. A little bit harder now.

Since I couldn’t quiet my own head, I decided I’d drown it out—by building a playlist for the story. It started because I saw one—damn good—edit of Silco to this song.

And oh, I was lost in the depths of those notes.

It was worth it.

So worth it.

The Weeknd Call Out My Name

But it turns out I didn’t just fall into the music.

I fell right into him. And I didn’t bounce off like a wall—because he opened his arms.

Invitingly. Enticingly.

How could I not fall in love?

Well, seriously...

It was as if he asked me to call out his name every time I needed more of him.

Do I sound pathetic?

Like hell I do.

But does that bother me?

Not a bit.

What’s funny—scary, even, and a little intriguing is that the music only really started playing in the background when there was chemistry between them. But the clear kind. The kind sparked by a dry kiss that could’ve ruined everything—and built something more dangerous than any cheap romance.

Chase Atlantic Swim

Silco has a wonderful theme. One I pulled to the very end, taking as much of it as I wanted. Somewhat selfishly—but hey, he let me.

I learned to swim in him.

Between his fierce tenderness and unpolished aggression.

Oh, how good it was...

And yet… yet I was missing something. As if the water had turned to ice. As if I could only observe through it, but never touch. I couldn't rearrange my words to guide me through the physicality with him. Frustrating as hell— but in this, too, I learned to swim.

Because I had to.

If I didn’t want to drown.

It wasn’t even desire anymore. It was necessity.

Adapt to the conditions—or drown. That’s what happens when you fight against too strong a current.

And he is that current.

He snatches you, unprepared, straight into deep water.

No breath.

No thought.

Just him—and the water.

Ari Abdul Stay

I led them through the story, not yet knowing how wrong I was about who was really in charge.

I thought I was incapable of writing their relationship—but the truth was they simply weren’t ready to show me that side of themselves. And forcing it—forcing them— led to one thing. They stopped letting me look. And without that I couldn’t write.

So I turned to feelings, searching for help where it all started—in music.

And that’s when I met Ari.

God, I love her endlessly.

Every song of hers sounded like a soundtrack to my story.

(Do you know how hard it is to stop being arogant when you think the universe is singing just for you?)

And maybe it was better that way.

To give them a moment of passion—and quietly step out. Everyone needs privacy. And that’s why they let me stay. Because I respected the boundaries I wasn’t yet able to cross.

I couldn’t be more grateful.

Sleep Token Rain

It’s just that at this point I began to feel it more intensely—how music wasn’t just shaping the text, but changing me.

All the pieces of the puzzle jumped into place. Themes overlapped. Words clicked into something that almost looked intentional.

Like I actually knew what I was doing.

I didn’t. But it looked neat. And I wanted others to find the hidden meaning

I swore I didn’t bury on purpose.

Since music had carried me this far, I figured—why not let it in fully? Let it bleed into the text. Best and worst decision ever.

It hit me like Rain—and suddenly, everything I’d tried to plant on dry, cracked ground started to grow like hell.

Of course I got addicted. There’s a reason green is my favourite colour.

I saw what it looked like when you stopped relying only on yourself, and started looking outside your own cluttered head. And maybe beyond the smell of smoke that always lingers around Silco…

But you don’t need to know that.

For the first time, I invited music into the words. Not as decoration. As a force. It slipped in faster than I could track, spreading like water. Seeping into the cracks.

Relentless. Threatening. Just like him.

And I let it.

Because, frankly?

I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Sleep Token Give

Sleep Token...

I can’t even begin to explain what happens in my head—or my chest—when their music hits bone. It boils the blood in my veins. It scrapes at something buried. It’s like they asked me for something and I just… gave it.

Bleeding all over the page, happily, in the hope that the story written in red won’t fade like all the others.

If you want to give

Then give me all that you can give.

I’m trying, okay? I did.

I gave the story back to the music by doing something I probably shouldn’t have done. Because it opened a door inside me I didn’t know existed.

And usually, when that happens, something ugly comes crawling out. But not this time.

This time the music poured in. Flooded me. Almost drowned me and with it came someone else.

Or maybe he’d always been there, just asleep. And the rain finally woke him.

At this point, I don’t even know what I gave away, or to whom. But if it meant I wasn’t going to be lonely anymore...

Then screw the rules.

This was the song that let her feel what it’s like to fight for someone. To recognise her enemies. To bare her teeth and raise her brow because she finally had a reason to. Though, if she’d known what was really waiting for her… She’d have charged in faster, no games, no slow burn, just blood on the floor and silence where manipulation used to be.

Sleep Token Ascensionism

That’s what I meant. God, I knew that if I gave myself over to the music—if that’s even what happened—something would change.

And maybe it already had. Maybe it was for the better.

Because suddenly I could reach through the ice. I could feel it. The warmth that had been sitting right there, in front of me, all this time.

It was fire. Pure, bright, and brutal. And I hadn’t even realised how much I missed it until it hit me full in the chest. So I let it. I exposed myself to the fire just to see if it would burn me.

And look—since I’m still here writing this, you can guess how it turned out.

No ashes, but yeah—I carry a scorched trace now. And I’m not letting go of it because that scar. It reminds me I did something brave.

That I changed. That I dove into something deeper—somewhere I hadn’t dared to go before, but had always known was waiting.

I needed them more than they ever needed me. They have each other. I only have them—and even they don’t belong to me. They belong to themselves.

And yet… I preferred their fiction over my reality, because anything was better than the way I felt at that moment.

It happened suddenly. Like the thrill of starting an adventure. But, of course, something was there. Watching.

Maybe they noticed I was seeing things differently. That I could finally reach for them. And maybe—okay, this sounds weird—but maybe that’s why they let me see more.

Don’t ask what I saw.

Just know: it was fire.

And for the first time since the very beginning, I didn’t hear some outside voice telling me to play nice, to fit inside the frame. That frame burned. And I’m glad. A certain one-shot—a solo chapter—came straight out from under my burnt fingers.

And I’m proud as hell of it. Because it’s mine. All mine. No second-guessing. No interference.

Just fire.

Too wild to control—but maybe that’s the point.

Sleep Token Descending

I'm left with the question of what’s still true at this point. I knew some things had to change—so I led her. Naively believing it was just a story all along.

I developed her. Pushed her further. Made her into something else. Maybe something better. Or maybe just something she had to become.

I gave her the opportunity.

And then I went down with her.

Drifting through the city like in a trance, blood on her hands, smoke in her hair.

I know that state all too well.

The deeper she sank into the hum of the city—into the heart of the Lanes—the more she opened her own mind. She let herself feel. Anger. Fury. Sadness. But not hope.

Not yet.

Maybe there simply wasn’t room for it. Maybe there wasn’t time. But there was something else.

Determination.

To not be crushed by the weight of her thoughts. To descend consciously. To go down not because she was pushed—but because she chose to. And maybe that’s how she knew she hadn’t completely lost her mind. She opened herself. Searching for something she had once lost.

But she didn’t trust it to hope.

Hope didn’t deserve applause.

Not when she tore everything—everything—with her own bare hands from the throats of those who dared reach too far.

Sleep Token Past Self

If the past self still had any say, she’d probably laugh in her face for asking for help.

She?

The one who always handled everything alone? Impossible.

There would’ve been disbelief—then anger—wrapped up in a cruel, familiar voice: You couldn’t manage anyway.

But that version of her isn’t in control anymore. She didn’t vanish. She didn’t die. She just no longer holds power over what’s unfolding. Because the need for change has become stronger than the comfort of clinging to what never offered any real solace.

The anger is still there.

The irritation too.

But something underneath has shifted.

A quiet realization—that nothing is as it should be and only change can cut through the rot.

So she moves forward. Not because it’s easy—but because no one else can save her.

Maybe Silco sees that. Maybe he once walked that same path, found something there he never gave away. Maybe that’s why he wanted to spare her. Tried to offer his scars as warning signs. Tried to say: Don’t be like me. Because her own mistakes would burn too deep.

But it’s in that fire—in the pain no one could carry for her—that she found the answers.

No one came to save her.

She wasn’t worth saving to anyone else.

So maybe she’s waiting—for herself—at the end of this road.

And maybe this time, she’ll get there in time.

Silco isn't—and probably never will be—my guardian angel who is hacking into my brain cells. But through him, I’ve started to uncover a part of myself I thought was gone.

Writing about him isn’t just a story. It’s a way to remember who I am.

If this is love, then I am out of hesitation.

It’s not a confession. It’s clarity. Not romance—presence.

Not like before when I was empty

That line still hurts. Because now… there’s something more. Not perfect. Just real.

Kyle Alessandro Lighter

For a while, I feared that Sleep Token had shown me the way only to leave me there. That the guiding hand had let go and I’d have to finish the story on my own.

But would that be so bad?

They're still close. Just not here. Because some paths you have to walk alone, believing that the solitude is only for now.

You can go back.

You can move forward.

Either way—someone will be there.

You are not alone and you’ll never be. So stop doing everything alone.

Isn’t that beautiful in its tragedy?

The courage that doesn’t come from defiance, but from knowing—truly knowing—that you don’t have to fight alone anymore.

That someone is willing to stand up for her. With her.

That maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to burn to prove you’re strong. That you can be your own lighter. And let the fire warm you instead of consuming you.

The blood moves faster now—not from rage, but because the cold is fading. And suddenly—loneliness becomes a choice, not a sentence. Like cool air against a fevered face, that realization settles.

You don’t need to be led to know the way. You just need to believe that someone is waiting for you at the end of it.

And she knows it now.

She knows.

Cult To Follow Leave It All Behind

This is the moment when calm disbelief begins to tremble deep in the viscera, squeezing out laughter—chaotic, broken laughter through the mouth, because otherwise it is impossible to respond to these months of living in spite of yourself. It's a cry from the depths, an expression of injustice at everything that has happened. Opening one's eyes to the past in order to look at the future without veils.

Then lightness appears.

But lightness does not equal forgiveness.

Sometimes this lightness is blood on the ground and another body left behind without a shadow of hesitation. That’s because when every move comes from alignment with oneself, peace follows—even if it wears a red-stained grin. Is that monstrous? Maybe. Is revenge her matchstick? Absolutely. But does that make her wrong?

I certainly won’t say so.

Because this time, the past doesn’t get to have the last word. All that rot—blame, regret, empty noise—has been buried. Cut off at the root. Like tearing ivy from a crumbling wall to let the sun in again. There’s no room left for apathy. No patience for inherited guilt. What tried to suffocate her has been silenced, and what complicated everything has been stripped down to bone.

She walked away from all of it.

Far enough that even silence felt full again. She left nothingness behind and didn't look back—not because she had to, but because she could.

Since they want a monster, she might as well become one. But only on her own terms. One that breathes fire, not poison. One that protects what she’s built, what she’s claimed. One that doesn’t flinch when the world tests her grip.

And if she ever loses herself again—she knows the way back.

Because trust is the foundation.

And she gave it to him first, so he could help her find the rest.

Hi, I waited a long time for myself, and you?

If you’ve made it this far through my chaotic devotion to music, I might as well admit something.

Do you still believe this is only fiction? A neatly crafted story about surviving Zaun and learning how to live again?

I wish it was.

But she is me.

She always was.

And maybe that's why I was finally able to hear him.

Not just as a voice I created. Not just a character, or a shadow walking through the smoke. But as someone I could speak to. Really speak to — and know that he'd understand, even when I didn't say it aloud. I think that’s what Dangerous became. Not a song. Not a scene.

What is it all for?

To say something, maybe understand something. To use music to convey meaning differently. But mostly because the joke has turned into reality and Silco is no longer just in my head, but stands behind me and probably reads everything I've written.

Yes, you can send me to the doctor now.

A conversation.

My side of it.

Because now I know how to talk to him.

And more importantly — how to listen.

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