It was late 1993. The constellation of Leo rose through the night sky like the burning morning Sun as his dream lay just out of focus. Death is the only thing that can stop me, he thought, looking ahead to the future – a college degree weighing him down as he takes sure steps towards something else. He was so young, so naïve, so stupid.
Subversive and independent, the small-town boy found himself in the city surrounded by predators, fighting the system at every turn as it gradually gnawed away at his very soul.The desert spirits were calling. He gazed into the mirror of the future, hoping that some hidden knowledge would come to him. His high hopes were born in a land of hopelessness, dreaming that one day he would depart.
The bashful Sun was hidden, obscured by the jagged mountaintops forcing their way up towards the sky. The four friends were running, fleeing from the cold, ticking hand of time which threatened to steal their dreams away, hauling the weight of those high hopes along with them. The grass seemed greener and the light seemed brighter when they were together, always one step ahead of their pursuers.
The high hopes and desert spirits always stayed with him. The cassette was borrowed. He lay at the foot of his own Joshua tree, hands stretched up to the sky like a prayer as the desert closed in around him. Here, the streets have no name, he thought, as he careened down the dusty desert trail at the break of dawn. The rising Sun illuminated everything. He knew what he wanted to do; it wasn’t too late. Thrown head-first into the world of music, he and his cousins set out to walk in the footsteps of giants. The passion was all they had.
Twisted metal and broken glass; a chaotic collision and a lost love. It was a near miss, a terrible tragedy that was inches away from being realized. He threw his arms around his mother, elated at the way things turned out but horrified at how easily it could have been different. The same couldn’t be said for the other woman in his life; her image growing more and more distant until the day came when she was out of view. Gone and never coming back.
Amongst the heartache and near-misses, those high hopes were taking root. The guitar fell into his hands for the first time; chords became songs and inspiration coalesced into reality. But it wasn’t to last. The band splintered apart; but he marched onwards.
He kept writing songs, still being dragged down by the decision he’d made years ago. The technological world had none of the fun but all of the stability; the life of the musician was unpredictable but so exhilarating. The fork in the road stared him down, but he looked straight back and pushed onwards, walking both roads together; forging his own course between the two. The music started to take form before the turn of the millennium.
The line-up was chopped and changed, continuously torn apart as members reached that fateful fork in the road, only to be reformed when strays wandered back from the other side. The first demo was cut and sights were set on the promised land. One left; drawn across the waters by a beautiful face. He was left alone, taking up his guitar and putting pen to paper at every available moment, still dragging the college degree along every step of the way. 2002. It was over. He stood before the gates for the last time and laughed.
The world lay at his feet, a dreamer setting sail for his promised land – the wellspring of his inspiration was just a flight away. He went there. Standing at the gates of a mansion, before the owner who was once his hero, he saw a broken star. A hypocrite millionaire trying to save the world with his now empty and emotionless music; simultaneously reminding him of his dream and the direction he didn’t want it to go. His idol now looked gluttonous; bathed in the naked light of reality.
Something took him away; Spanish eyes, doll-faced, exquisitely proportioned and thoroughly enrapturing. He poured everything into her, his dreams, hopes, ambitions, creativity and energy, at the expense of himself. The second fork in the road drew him much more strongly than the first, and he followed the new path with such tenacity that it drained him. He was emotionally barren, giving his happiness to her. When his time was up and he returned home, he felt like he had nothing left.
He wrote love songs, sending them off across the ocean and hoping to stay in her thoughts. The other path was still in his sights, but he didn’t know if he had the energy to make it back. Watching an old friend play a show, the fires were starting to be rekindled, but the crushing weight of his emotion made the experience a bittersweet one. Then the motherfucker – the snake-tongued type who always knew which buttons to press – decided to pour acid on the wound. But it got to him; he felt like a failure.
It was the desert again, the barren red sands and arid, unforgiving air. This time, the terrain zoomed past at 190 km/h, his eyes fixed on the cars whipping past him at the opposite side of the road. Tears streamed down his face as he hammered the accelerator and pictured the end: the deafening thud of metal colliding and his body being crushed like a grape beneath a boot-heel, the car flipping off the road and extinguishing his existence. The Voice came through strong and he was overwhelmed by a cosmic calm, pulling over to the side of the road. “High Hopes” shone through the car stereo, over and over again as the Sun climbed up from behind the horizon.
It wasn’t too late. His second chance was waiting; his new beginning was within his reach. All he had to do was find the strength to raise himself up and grasp it with both hands. There would be bumps on the road, he thought, but when you’re fuelled by passion, a soaring mountain standing in your way is a mere blip on the radar. He started up the engine and carved a path back to the path. His path.