Dear Miss Rachael Yamagata:

Tonight, you appeared in front of me. After months and months of waiting, I found a way to see you again [remember? you wrote these lyrics].

Ok, admittedly, we were not alone. You appeared in front of many others at the same time. They were to my left, to my right, above me, below me, in front of me, behind me. At times, they were irritating me and damaging my carefully constructed dream by talking, muttering, even yelling your name at completely inappropriate moments (like when you were halfway through emoting utterly melancholic lyrics). And while I could see you and hear you, you could not see me or hear me. I felt like I was on the telephone with someone speaking on the other end, and that person spoke and spoke and after an hour or so, hangs up without ever stopping, or waiting, for my reply.

Which kind of reflects how some relationships are in real life, actually.

But I digress.

Anyway, I want you to know that your songs form an integral part of my memories.

I listen to your songs when I'm down and out, when I'm at my saddest. My ex once had a conversation with me over the phone which preluded a later suggestion of breaking up. During that conversation, one of your slow numbers played in the background. I listen to your songs after ending a relationship in a painful manner. I listen to your songs and the tuning fork of its lyrics, of its crooner, jars the chords of my soul. I never denied listening to them was a painful affair, but I have to admit that the waves of ache, the rip-tides of pain, were absolutely necessary.

Why did you write the way you did? Why did you compose those tunes the way you did? Why lay bare your heart so frankly? I never believed honesty was the best policy. Why hold on so tightly when you've already lost it, let it slip through your fingers, long ago? Why stay when the act has already ended, the stage cleared and the audience departed? Why say words that ought to be left unuttered, to be left to reverberate only in the hidden corners of your war-ravaged heart? Why write down words on nondescript pieces of paper, to be thrown away and burnt into ashes and blown away by the winds into oblivion?

Perhaps, we each know these answers best to ourselves.

Emotion is something commonly rejected by the masses. Do you know there is now a label called "emo nemo", and it is used on people who are overly expressive with their emotions? I do not know your opinion on that, but to me, perhaps, it is a defensive tool wielded by people who are afraid to let loose the taps of their emotional wellsprings. They are afraid that once the tap is turned, it can't be turned back off.

You prove them wrong. In your songs, your voice is steady, calm, composed. Your world is crumbling all around you but that voice stays firm.

And the sadness of your beautiful voice is exceeded only by the excellence of your lyrical poetry.

It turns out you have a wicked sense of humour too. You really made me laugh when you mercilessly jibed your band mates, called yourself the "whore of Singapore" and laughed off your inability to hit high notes by suggesting yourself as a possible poster girl for the local anti-smoking campaign.

I paid roughly a dollar per minute for your performance, and it was some of the best money I ever spent.

Sadness is part and parcel of life, I am just glad you're around when it happens.

If you ever see this please drop me a line, maybe we could meet up for a coffee. I suspect we have more in common than you'd ever imagine.

Till we meet again,
Eisen