12:34 PM weeping

I was walking inside train station, on a mission to buy packed lunch for the journey, when this song began soaring from my headphones. It was “The Messenger” by Linkin Park.

As you know, we’re in the wake of the departure of Chester Bennington. His death came as a horrifying shock. His music was the voice of my youth, just like it was for a lot of everyone who are currently mourning over the loss of his talent.

Linkin Park concert in 2004 was the first concert I’ve ever attended. I was 10 years old, and I deliberately skipped my science exam to see this. I remember running with my Dad’s friend across the field, realising we’re missing the first song. My Dad called upon me, who were a brisk sprinter as a kid, and told me to chillax. I couldn’t, but I slowed down my pace anyway, walking in quick steps with my sisters, while thinking about how Mum and my younger brother (then only 4 years old) must be disappointed to have missed this show. My remorse for them was quickly removed upon seeing the stage, though.

The sound, blasting. The crowd, screaming. Me, jovial.

I pushed through the crowd until I was quite close—being a small child, it was easy to slip. I almost reached the front-liners of my festival group when I realised, nope, I shouldn’t be too far from everyone. This thought occurred not because my Dad told me not to wander off, or that it might be dangerous, but because I felt it’s not fair if I can see them this close while my sisters couldn’t. So I stepped back, and enjoyed everything from behind.

But it was amazing. His voice was amazing everywhere. There’s never a low point. It keeps on going up and up, I left in awe, a total awe.

My first sister was perhaps the biggest fan of LP among us, siblings. She played Hybrid Theory and or Meteora a lot on our cassette player, to hype up our early day routine, or to brighten up tiring noons. I thought to myself, back then, I liked Meteora better in general. But I liked certain songs in Hybrid Theory greatly, too. When people are away, or not yet home, I’d fastforward the cassette to these songs I was fond of. Don’t Stay. Breaking the Habit. Easier to Run. I loved seeing my sister rapped through Numb, I admired her for remembering the whole lyrics for In the End. I loved everything.

Their songs are the anthem of my bestest childhood memories.

When they launched A Thousand Suns, Dad bought the CD, of course. He remarked that their songs were getting more mellow. But I liked it anyway, albeit agreeing to this remark. He liked it, anyway, too. He put it in the car’s CD player, and we listened to this album every time we went to do grocery shopping, or any sort of buying food outside with car.

I only realised “The Messenger” much later, though. Perhaps beginning of college, or end of high school. But this song was so moving, the first time I noticed it, I put it on repeat, that it was on repeat for 4 days.

I listen to this song a lot, especially when I’m down. Naturally, in 2016, this became permanent company to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah and Gary Jules’s Mad World and Perfume Genius’s Dark Parts and REM’s Everybody Hurts and Johnny Cash’s Hurts and all songs that get me down, just so Chester could comfort me. This song breaks my heart, but in the same time, uplifts me. Most of the time I sang along the lyrics, I couldn’t help but breaking down in tears. Because it feels like someone’s saying ‘it’s fine’, with great assurance, without judgement, but also with pain and realisation that dark hours will never go away. It strengthens me with the acknowledgement of the existence of that bitter fact; and that, in spite of its surety, we can get through.

It reminded me to be strong for myself.

It reminded me to be kind to myself.

It reminded me to save myself.

In the wake of what’s been happening lately, as well as the emergence of greater realisation of the importance of mental health, this message becomes increasingly important. So remember this.

Really, really, remember this.

I can't even.