I sing about my mother, the loneliest of oboes, who had left us years ago, hands cupped over her ears to keep out the orchestra of her children, the music of everyday life which was too much to bear. In this song she is a dishwasher, table-maker, diaper-changer, traitor, fugitive, tie-dyer, bead-maker, pipe-smoker, 12-step programmer, living one day at a time, with one eye on life and one eye on the conductor with his hands raised to death. This is the song that will be translated into other languages, passed down from generation to generation, sung in unison, a cappella, by monarchs and gypsies and single mothers all around the world. This song will find its home in the hymnals of churches. This song is sung in the loneliest of bedrooms, behind closed doors, by young men and women who fear they are the last ones on earth.
Sufjan Stevens for (the now defunct) Topic Magazine
(via
thestrangerinthewoods)
(via halvingthetimeofmylife)