Like Cockatoos by The Cure

The mood, the imagery, the rhythm. On an album that is mostly upbeat with a tinge of melancholy, this song reaches my dreams. I see trees rustling in the summer breeze, fighting the promise of rain. I hear sounds that come alive only at night, looming in the dark to disappear when the sun shows up. I smell a forgotten garden with flowers withered to the soil. And that voice… Robert Smith takes me to another world.

Whenever I think of my Wanderlust trilogy, the first instalment being Land in Abyss, in which a girl chooses her darker side so she can go through another dimension, Like Cockatoos feeds my soul. The first steps to becoming someone else, someone knew, letting go of who you thought you were. The final look at where you come from, saying goodbye to someone, something you will never feel, see or touch again. Like birds flying high, brushing the clouds, lost in a mass of blue.

This song molds my Wanderlust writing cocoon. The first notes take my breath away, and lead to the sinuous path of inspiration. I see black melting into deep purple, losing myself in the night’s sky. I see a girl facing the unknown, scared but brave, surrounded by creatures made of nightmares. I see her give in, becoming who she fears most: herself.

I was so young the first time I heard Like Cockatoos. Kiss Me… was the third album I bought from my beloved Cureheads, and it took me a while to fully understand it. Subtle, like most Cure songs; sad, which is a prerequisite; surreal, painting a landscape of abandonment. But love, always love, whether it breaks you, engulfs your very being, or leaves you standing in the rain.

And ever since, the song pulls at my heart, leaving me wanting much more.

Kiss me

Kiss me

Kiss me

(1987), Fiction Records