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🕑 Added 2025-05-23 17:55:26 +0000 UTCChapter 122: Breaking Down the Lyrics
The emotions Ronan felt through the words had built a melodic world—grander, heavier—shifting away from what Ollie had originally felt when writing the lyrics. That disconnect made the chorus feel out of place, like it needed a complete redo. But the snag was, Ronan hadn’t pinned down the right melody yet either. He couldn’t stretch it into lyrics, and the creative process hit a wall.
Facing Ollie’s puzzled look, Ronan thought hard for a moment before giving up with a wave of his hand. “I can’t quite put it into words right now. We need to feel it out more. If you hear a full melody and a finished arrangement, you’ll probably get a clearer sense of the concept.”
Ollie nodded in agreement. His head was still swirling with questions, but he knew creativity often stumbled into moments words couldn’t capture. He was no stranger to that. So he circled back to the start. “Okay, so what’s the vibe you’re picturing?”
“I’m imagining something like Alien—you’re in danger, drifting through space, caught in a blur where time and space don’t make sense anymore.” Ronan’s eyes lit up slowly as he spoke.
Truth is, Ronan hadn’t actually “watched” Alien. More accurately, he’d “listened” to it.
Back when his sight was fine, movies never interested him—he didn’t care at all. It wasn’t until he was plunged into darkness that he realized films could open up new perspectives in different ways. By then, it was too late to “see” them.
Later, after training to become a teacher, he met a volunteer buddy—a total movie nut who couldn’t go three sentences without bringing up films. They’d huddle in front of the TV together, popping in VHS tapes or DVDs of classic old movies. Ronan couldn’t watch with his eyes, but his friend sat beside him, giving quick, clear rundowns of what was happening—characters, plot, the works—helping him feel the world of the film through sound. It turned into a special chapter of Ronan’s life.
Most of the time, the movies Ronan “knew” were pretty far from the real thing, pieced together by his own imagination.
But that didn’t stop him from soaking in the atmosphere and emotions they carried.
Right now, it was the same deal.
He pictured the loneliness and despair of drifting in the cosmic void, using that setting to mirror Ollie’s mental spiral into nothingness, channeling the darkness woven into the lyrics.
“Mayday. Mayday.” Ronan pointed to the opening lines. “Normally, the international rule is to repeat it three times, but here it’s just twice. Maybe you gave up—or you were forced to. Either way, you’re teetering on the edge of despair.”
Then Ronan streamlined the lyrics, tweaking the rhymes and word choices to fit a rhythm. He kept the raw emotional punch Ollie had poured in, though. The small adjustments might seem minor, but the craft behind those subtle strokes took real skill.
Ollie and Ronan started hashing it out, their creative back-and-forth helping them see each other’s vision more clearly.
Ollie began to catch on. “So you’re saying my mind’s like the whole universe, and my demon’s trying to swallow my soul, drag me into the dark until I turn into it. All I can do is sing out loud. Then this ‘you’ in the lyrics—who’s that?”
“You’ll be unstoppable,” “You’ll take my pain away”—the second person in the lyrics. What did it mean?
A cry for help to the band?
To God?
Or something else? In that desperate spot, who were they calling out to?
“Music,” Ronan said. “Not me. Sure, you could say it’s me—I’m always here, you know that. But the demon’s in your head, and I can’t get in there. Music’s the only bridge. I need you to let it out so I can help, and you need to pull yourself together…”
“With music?”
“Yeah, with music.”
Ollie’s questions lingered. “But at the start of the lyrics, you mentioned ‘they.’ Who’s ‘they’? Like, who’s the ‘mayday’ aimed at first?”
“Bystanders. Strangers,” Ronan explained further. “It’s two phases. First, you’re drowning in despair and call out to those onlookers—‘mayday, mayday’—but they think you’re nuts. They can’t feel your pain. So you sink into your own world, and in the second phase, you turn to music, shouting out your emotions. It’s your only way.”
Ollie went quiet—
Because it hit too close. Too real.
It was his exact story. He’d been sending out cries for help, but the band hadn’t answered. Last night, Ronan finally heard him. Those words from Ronan sparked something, turning Ollie’s feelings into lyrics—raw and real—bringing him a kind of redemption.
Now, Ronan had shaped it into something clearer, sharper, delivering exactly what Ollie had been trying to say. That meant… Ronan really got him.
Ollie’s mind flashed to “Born This Way” and “Chasing the Light”—why those songs won over the whole band, even caught Scooter’s eye. And why, after Scooter’s blow, Ronan had said what he did.
Bit by bit, it all clicked together.
Ollie stayed quiet, not saying much, just murmuring softly, “Can you hum it again?”
Ronan didn’t say no. “I’m thinking we could add some electronic vibes—beef up the melody, give it that futuristic, sci-fi edge, really bring out the cosmic scale.” He explained as he started humming again.
Without backing, the a cappella felt light, missing the weight and grandeur Ronan aimed for. But the emotion rippled through anyway, subtle as a dragonfly skimming water.
Ollie soaked it in, then looked up at Ronan with a faint smile in his eyes. He nudged him with his shoulder. “Even a casual hum sounds that good. Tell me, is that a voice kissed by God or what?”
Even in a throwaway hum, Ronan’s clear tone carried a soft brightness, like the notes were laced with magic. For Ollie, it was an outlet—his inner darkness finding a release, settling down, slipping back to normal.
He loved Ronan’s voice.
Chapter 123: All In
“…Don’t you think this is a voice kissed by God?”
Faced with Ollie’s praise, Ronan’s expression stiffened. His smile froze awkwardly on his lips, unsure how to respond, a faint flush of shyness creeping in.
This clumsy, hesitant version of him stood in stark contrast to the ease he’d shown while humming moments ago—like two different people entirely.
Ollie burst into cheerful laughter, though he covered his mouth to avoid disturbing the other passengers. He nudged Ronan again. “You just say ‘thanks.’ You can take the compliments—they’re yours to own. You’ve earned them.” Then he moved on. “Let’s jot this down for now. We’ll figure out the rest when we get to Washington.”
“Wait, no—rehearsals in Washington will probably keep us crazy busy. Not sure if we’ll have time. Anyway, let’s write it down now and find a moment later… What’s up?”
Ollie had been rambling quietly when he noticed Ronan’s gaze drift off. Sensing something was off, he piped up.
Ronan was caught mid-thought. Turns out, he could accept praise without feeling awkward or embarrassed. If he did well, compliments were just natural—no need to be flustered. Turns out, he really did have talent.
“Because you’re worth it.” Such a simple line, yet it felt like Ronan had waited a lifetime to hear it. Even after the Scooter mess, when he’d earned the praise Maxim and Ollie had longed for, he hadn’t fully settled into it. Only now was he starting to clumsily figure it out.
Every ordinary, small person had their own spark to find. They should embrace their strengths instead of letting flaws erase everything. Humans were a messy mix of faults and gifts—no one was perfect.
So that’s how it was.
Ronan zoned out a little. What seemed obvious to Ollie was something he had to stumble through step by step.
When Ollie caught him spacing out, Ronan’s face flickered with embarrassment. But he quickly steadied himself, meeting Ollie’s curious look and smoothly shifting gears. “Nothing, just thinking about other lyrics.”
“Hm?” Ollie didn’t suspect a thing, rolling with Ronan’s lead.
Ronan eased back into it. “I mean, the other lyrics feel brighter, more upbeat, but there’s this subtle bitterness to life you can taste if you dig deeper. Maybe we could turn them into something lighter—a little piece, like slow rock, using self-mockery to carry the sadness and heaviness.”
Ollie’s eyes lit up as inspiration sparked. “Hold on.”
He snatched the pen from Ronan, flipped to a fresh page in the sketchbook, and scribbled down the rush of ideas flooding in.
But this time, he stopped after just two lines, showing them to Ronan. “Like this?”
“Oh, he’s ruling the room while I’m slowly crashing down, so I let go because he’s gone, but he doesn’t even know. Get out of my head—I need to move on; get out of my head, or I’ll die if this keeps up.”
Short, but packed with meaning. And it veered far from the vibe of the earlier lyrics.
The emotions woven into the words shifted quietly, and the melody flowing in his mind naturally followed suit.
Ronan nodded in approval, took the pen, and swapped every “he” for “you.” Ollie reread it and couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Ronan, now it’s a love song! What are you…”
Lyrics inspired by a demon turning into a serenade?
Ronan chuckled. “Why not? Swap the demon for someone you love, and you still feel that deep pain. Sure, the type of pain changes, but expressing it through music lets you convey different emotions. That’s what makes it fun.”
“Get out of my head… get out of my head…” Ollie muttered the phrase over and over, then shook his head. “I can’t picture it turning into a love song.” The starting point was just too different.
“Oh, not a sappy one,” Ronan said, shaking his head. “It’s about playing up the pain with something upbeat—like ‘Dancing Alone.’”
“Hmm…” Ronan paused, searching for the right words. Language felt flat compared to the vividness of melody. So he skipped explaining and started humming instead. “Da-da-da-da, da-da… da-da…” He felt out the rhythm, then sang softly:
“Get out of my head… I should look ahead; get out of my head, loving you more will be the death of me.”
“Get out of my head… yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah; get out of my head, loving you more will be the death of me.” (Note 1)
Light, breezy, effortless—the rhythm practically skipped at his fingertips like a little sprite. The melody smiled, but the clash with the lyrics revealed a sadness and bitterness laced with helpless resignation. Even that short hummed snippet carried a wave of emotion.
“Here, we can layer the arrangement in three parts. First, the main melody—record it with a bass to ground the mood. Use that low tone to build a thick, heavy, bittersweet vibe, with just some simple drum beats to anchor it and set the tone.”
“Then the second layer—organ, snare, acoustic guitar. Keep it light, don’t overshadow the main melody, but let it bring out a playful, cheeky, self-deprecating feel. That’s what lifts the whole track and hits the listener.”
“Finally, the third layer—maybe some ethereal synths, or white noise… Hm, that part needs more thought. But I mean, like a dusting of frosting, it’d add depth and boost the song’s atmosphere.”
Unlike the earlier stalled attempt, this flowed smooth and easy. From a few lines, inspiration poured out endlessly. In a handful of words, Ronan had sketched the melody, chords, and a rough arrangement.
Ollie’s mind painted the picture too. What he couldn’t imagine moments ago now sprang to life. The spark ignited. “Wait, wait…” He stopped Ronan, grabbed the pen, and dove in, scribbling furiously, the ideas flowing like water.
Note 1: Get Out of My Head (Lewis Turner)
Chapter 124: Sparks of Inspiration
“…Oh, you’re owning the room while I’m sinking slow. So I let go, ‘cause you’re already gone. But you don’t even know.
Get out of my head—I need to look ahead. Get out of my head, or loving you will kill me dead.
No matter how long I wait, I always know my fate, and it doesn’t look so great…”
The sorrow flowed gently through the words, laced with a bitter self-awareness—like a clown dancing alone in the quiet.
Ronan’s eyes brightened bit by bit, a soft hum rumbling low in his throat.
“Hmm-hmm-hmm… hmm-hmm-hmm…”
Faintly, he felt it again—that moment from last night, standing on the Las Vegas Strip, busking. The noisy crowd rushed by, but no one stopped. Surrounded by the surge of people, he was slowly swallowed by loneliness.
But this wasn’t like the reworked “Dancing on My Own.” It was closer to the original—sadder, yet the more it hurt, the more he danced; the lonelier it got, the louder he sang. He poured it all out, as if no one was listening, just letting the fragility and bitterness spill free.
“Get out of my head, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah. Get out of my head, or loving you will kill me dead.”
The lyrics and melody bounced lightly between his lips—like Chaplin, smiling through the sadness. The simplest, most straightforward words carried the rawest, truest ache from deep inside.
And just like that, it was done.
From start to finish—lyrics, melody, chords—it all came together smooth as water.
Ollie looked up at Ronan, blinked, then broke into a grin. “Now that I think about it, a girl and a demon? Pretty much the same deal. They both stick in your head, digging in deep, trying to take over your thoughts, slowly killing you off.”
“Love and music—always driving us crazy,” Ronan said, his eyebrow ticking up, a ripple of amusement in his eyes.
This new track, “Get Out My Head,” came together so easily. From lyrics to melody, it took less than five minutes. Ronan and Ollie knocked it out together, even picturing the arrangement in their heads.
Ollie shook his head lightly. “Nah, love and dreams—they’re the ones that drive you nuts. And they’re slowly choking the life out of you too.”
“Oh?” Ronan leaned back a bit, giving Ollie a long, intrigued look. He picked up the cup of mineral water from his tray like it was a fancy afternoon tea, striking a pose as if ready to listen intently.
“Spill it.”
It was like Ollie had some wild story tucked away—calm on the surface, but with waves crashing underneath, begging to be explored.
Catching the glint in Ronan’s eyes, Ollie didn’t hesitate. He raised a fist the size of a bowl and waved it at Ronan in mock threat.
Ronan could feel Ollie’s embarrassment and let out a hearty laugh. But he didn’t push further, settling back into his seat with a small nod. “I get what you mean. You know, sometimes I hate dreams too. If we didn’t have them, maybe life would look different—easier, even.”
Hating dreams.
It wasn’t just frustration talking—it was more like resignation.
Dreams kept them from bending to life’s grind, but when they wouldn’t come true, the road ahead stretched long and dim. Crushed under the weight, they ended up curled up in that gray space between hope and just getting by—stuck, unable to go back or see forward.
If—just if—they could learn to let go, to settle, maybe life would lighten up.
Or maybe, if they’d never had dreams at all, never tasted the freedom and thrill of chasing them, they wouldn’t know life could be more—could burst with color. Maybe it’d all just be simpler.
But they couldn’t.
Love was like that. Dreams were like that. Life was like that.
Most of the time, it’s you wrestling with yourself, hunting for your own path, your own equation for happiness. Life doesn’t come with right answers, but that’s why it’s full of endless possibilities—and all the confusion that comes with them.
“But without love and dreams, life’s just a slow suicide,” Ollie said, tilting his head, picturing a flat, flavorless existence. “I can’t see myself in a suit and tie, clocking in. Or you, stuck in an office, cranking out reports. It’d be like living underwater—burning quietly, suffocating bit by bit.”
“Slow suicide,” Ronan muttered low, the words rolling in his throat before he swallowed them down. His eardrums caught the faint vibration, and something clicked. A soft chuckle slipped out.
“Hm? What’s up?” Ollie glanced over.
Ronan shook his head, but the smile creeping across his face grew wider, the corners of his mouth lifting higher. He couldn’t hold it in—the laughter spilled out.
Up here in the sky, the cabin pressure wrapped his ears in a bubble, like his head was dunked underwater. Sounds grew distant, and in the hum, he could almost hear the blub-blub of a goldfish blowing bubbles.
Like a submarine.
Ollie’s description—poetic, sure, but also kind of hilarious.
In that moment, a melody popped into Ronan’s head—like a goldfish singing with its little mouth flapping open and shut. It was so goofy, especially with Ollie’s curious penguin-like head tilt as he asked what was up. The laughter just wouldn’t quit.
Ollie pouted, leaning back until his chins stacked up like melting cream. That did it—Ronan lost it completely.
He caught himself quick, realizing it was the cabin, muffling the sound. But it was too late—a half-laugh slipped out, screeching to a stop like an emergency brake. Every head turned their way. Good thing business class was mostly just the One Day Kings and Alice—no real chaos erupted.
Still, Maxim and Cliff shot them confused looks, whispering what the heck was going on. They’d been making a racket for a while now.
Ronan was dying trying to hold it in, waving them off to say it was nothing, but he couldn’t get a word out. It took everything to calm down.
He didn’t dare look at Ollie again—another laugh was too close to the surface. Instead, he snatched the pen from the tray and started scribbling furiously in the sketchbook.
Inspiration clashed with inspiration, and sparks flew. From last night to now, riding the highs and lows of joy and worry, the creative juice kept flowing. No wonder they say art comes from life and rises above it—only by living those ups and downs can you tap into real inspiration. It’s an ageless truth.
Ollie blinked, catching on that Ronan was working on another song.
A third one?
But then he peeked at the lyrics, and his face dropped, a mess of black lines practically drooping off his head.
(End of Chapter)
