Yna – unaligned

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The dome of a planetarium opening up — that was what I first thought of while listening to the opening of unaligned: a simple and familiar night rendered into something of awe, vast yet calm, enveloping. And once it finally does, Yna and her guitar fall through the skies, the stars, the clouds to land softly on the hardwood floor, trying to form their own galaxies out of cracked and dusted ceilings. The setting is plain, trite even (“Suddenly I feel so wrong, even when I’m in the right”) — that’s also the entire point. There’s a certain comfort and gravity to the predictable that Yna spins an entire world out of: the downcast hesitation as she croons, “And I don’t know what to…do”; how she goes in circles, hoping in vain to break the cycle, (“And I tried everything / To feel anything / But even little things…weren’t enough”), the sonar pings the guitar seems to send out, a searchlight for company — someone, something, anything. Her voice starts to echo back; nothing. When the strings come in, lifting everything back up into space, a moment of solace starts to come into focus, and a “you” enters the narrative, no longer alone or left in the dark. But it’s just that — a moment, swelling then dissipating, leaving you looking back up at scattered constellations, wondering when they’ll align again: “You promised me we would grow, but only one of us saw….the sky.”


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