Jeff had come here ready to perform. He's got his guitar (his, after several months without any instrument to call his own) and he doesn't need any magic to coax him to stage.
But what he performs isn't the song he'd intended. The tune isn't familiar, it's totally new to him, but his fingers play it without effort, like he's always known it by heart. It isn't anything slow or sorrowful, and when he sings, his voice is light and playful, rather than mournful.
He sings about a boy who caught the eye of a demon-- an angel-- a faerie-- something else entirely, something that defies definition. It loved him, and he hated it. It hated him, and he loved it. It moved in with the boy and made him see: unreality overlayed with reality. Endless possibility, magic without boundaries, worlds in shadows and reflections and all the things that exist just beyond the corner of one's eyes. He hated it, he loved it, he would burn his life to the ground for it.
The boy was full of fear. The boy was going mad. The boy wanted to crawl into unreality and live in an impossible place.
Instead, the boy died, and when he awoke, It was gone. Now the boy lives in silence, chained to reality, with nothing but fading memories and nightmares of worlds beyond, magic without boundaries, and terrifying beautiful things he can almost see, just out of the corner of his eye.
He sings about this stupid boy and his stupid fucking yearning for some undefinable Thing to break his world again with a smile on his face and wonder in his voice, while his heart feels as empty and hollow as ever. And some part of him wants others to feel that wonder, that magic, all that could have been but will never be, and maybe that's why some in the audience may feel Jeff's magic worming its way into their hearts, different but not so dissimilar from the demon's.
His own magic twists with the sorrow, infuses it with ecstasy, to give others a chance to feel those highest of highs, before they're ripped away.
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But what he performs isn't the song he'd intended. The tune isn't familiar, it's totally new to him, but his fingers play it without effort, like he's always known it by heart. It isn't anything slow or sorrowful, and when he sings, his voice is light and playful, rather than mournful.
He sings about a boy who caught the eye of a demon-- an angel-- a faerie-- something else entirely, something that defies definition. It loved him, and he hated it. It hated him, and he loved it. It moved in with the boy and made him see: unreality overlayed with reality. Endless possibility, magic without boundaries, worlds in shadows and reflections and all the things that exist just beyond the corner of one's eyes. He hated it, he loved it, he would burn his life to the ground for it.
The boy was full of fear. The boy was going mad. The boy wanted to crawl into unreality and live in an impossible place.
Instead, the boy died, and when he awoke, It was gone. Now the boy lives in silence, chained to reality, with nothing but fading memories and nightmares of worlds beyond, magic without boundaries, and terrifying beautiful things he can almost see, just out of the corner of his eye.
He sings about this stupid boy and his stupid fucking yearning for some undefinable Thing to break his world again with a smile on his face and wonder in his voice, while his heart feels as empty and hollow as ever. And some part of him wants others to feel that wonder, that magic, all that could have been but will never be, and maybe that's why some in the audience may feel Jeff's magic worming its way into their hearts, different but not so dissimilar from the demon's.
His own magic twists with the sorrow, infuses it with ecstasy, to give others a chance to feel those highest of highs, before they're ripped away.