Un homme ça pleure pas

Beneath the heavy breathing of words, you can hear an attempt to straighten up, even when everything inside has long since crumbled. There's no weakness in his voice, but a tired persistence: like a person who has lost their way, he stubbornly keeps moving forward, pretending he knows where he's going. Dust under his eyelids, which he calls not tears, is just a defence against admitting it. After all, admitting pain means becoming vulnerable again, and vulnerability is a luxury they don't allow themselves. There's something about that sound that's reminiscent of a bronze statue cracking from the inside. Externally, a stiff back, straight shoulders, the usual gesture of power. But between the bass beats and synth sighs, you can hear a quiet, human tremor, almost gentle. It feels like all it takes is a slightly stronger breath, and all this masculine "don't worry" will crumble into the very dust hidden under my eyelashes.