Letter from the Man Who Can't Be Moved

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The Man Who Can't Be Moved by The Script

A Letter from the Man Who Can’t Be Moved:

When I first saw you, you were singing to the empty air. Your voice was so strong that it cascaded over the crashing sea waves, pushing them back. The sunset was your audience, and the sand on the beach rose up to listen to you. I moved closer, joining them in their silent wonder.

You sat on the bench on the corner of the street a block away from the sea shore. You sat beside me. I tried to find the words to tell you that your song was seeping into my soul, but I didn’t have to. Maybe you knew. You spoke first. I didn’t have to answer, only listen, only look at you, only smile and nod, as you told me about you and tossed your hair in the sea breeze and laughed.

You told me you wanted to travel. You told me you’ve been out of the country twice already and that it was the best time of your life. Flying, traveling, running, going away… that was who you were. You never looked at anything closer than the horizon. I doubt you ever laid your eyes on me. Your eyes were always trained towards the edge of the world, or the zenith of the sky, to the places where you longed to be.

I never wanted to travel. I never wanted to fly. The idea of facing something unfamiliar sends my heart reeling. I’ve never been outside of this city, and I never want to be. I told you how I thought there was always something new to discover in a place, something new to wonder at. You told me that wonderful things don’t happen in small towns.

I liked the idea of home. You were always in love with the idea of hotels. I wanted to have a place that had a family history, a present, and a future. Somewhere homey and warm and familiar. You hated home. You told me that when a person sits still for so long he melts into his chair, and his boring house, and his dusty town ‘til you can’t tell the town and the person apart anymore.

The day I was going to tell you I loved you; I was sitting on the bench where we two first met. You came running down the road and I stood up to meet you and you launched yourself straight into my arms and cried. You hated this place. You sobbed. You were getting out. You sobbed. Then you broke out into absolute, irrepressible laughter and began spinning around. I did it. You said. I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to be famous. I’m going to travel. They like my songs. They love my songs.

So there you were, the girl on the run. You were singing your heart out to the world hoping that the world would call back. And they did. You were waiting for the world to give you a direction, and once you knew where to go, you were on the run. Your heels burned, your soul itched to break free and fly, and your eyes were trained to the far end of the sky. Far. That’s all I know. You went far.

You left the town and I never saw you again. I went back to the bench where we first met and waited for the night to descend, imagining you coming just as the sun dipped into the sea. After a few years, I began to worry. I put up your picture and asked everyone I knew to tell you to come back, if ever they saw you.

I looked up at the night sky and imagined you sitting beside me once again. I breathed in the salty sea breeze and felt your head lying peacefully on my shoulder as the dark descended all around us.

I wonder if the world turned out as beautiful as you had dreamed it up. I wonder if the hotels are warm, with cream walls and pale yellow lights that make you want to kick off your shoes and fall asleep. I wonder if the city lights never look too bright to you.

Sometimes I can feel you crying on my chest again, sobbing how much you hate this place. I wonder if it’ll ever happen wherever you are now. Who do you run to now? When the hotel room gets lonely, and quiet and cold and empty, and the bright city lights are dimming your soul, who will you run to? What happens when you finally realize, finally see that the world’s too big a place to be alone in?

The waves of the sea crash before me, and the sun dips below the horizon. I hear your voice singing to the empty air again and wait for your dancing figure to come running down the street, and back to me. Slowly the light of the sun grows fainter and the lamppost by the bench flickers on. I stare at the silent road beside me and wait for your shadow to grace the street corner. I don’t know when you’re coming back, but when you do, I’ll be here. I’m not moving.