The article is an essay reflecting on the creation and meaning of a song titled "Far but near". It explores the song’s musical structure and lyrical narrative, linking them to the author's personal experience of being young and gay in Belfast. The themes discussed include first love, distance and obsession, the emotional architecture preserved in journal writing, the shadow of homophobia and HIV, and the cultural influence of Oscar Wilde as a coded symbol of survival and vocabulary for gay men in Ireland
“I haven’t called because the silence feels safer.”
That’s the first sentence this song gives you. Not a chorus. Not a thesis statement. A small, dangerous truth whispered like it might break if you say it out loud.
Before you even get to the story, the sound has already decided what kind of world you’re in.
A piano keeps coming back to the same figure—simple, almost childlike, and relentlessly unresolved. It doesn’t develop so much as it haunts. Under it, the bass sits low and steady, the way anxiety does: not loud, just always there.
The drums don’t push. They trudge. A kick that lands like a slow heartbeat, a snare that cracks and then leaves a long aftertaste. The whole thing moves at the pace of somebody walking with their head down, trying to get through a day without being seen.
And then there’s the space.
The reverb is not polished. It’s architecture. It makes the track feel like a large empty room at night—where every thought gets a second life because it echoes. You can hear the distance inside the mix.
When the vocal arrives it’s close—breath, grain, a human throat—then it’s pulled back into that room like the singer has stepped away mid-confession. It’s intimate and unreachable at the same time. The song keeps doing that: giving you closeness, then showing you what closeness can’t fix.
From that opening line, the narrative widens like a camera pulling out.
It starts with the phone—the decision not to call, the way silence becomes a shield. Then it moves to the hunger underneath it: I’m desperate just to see his face. A need that’s physical, almost embarrassing in its clarity.
Then the song takes you outside. Into the park. Into the crowd. Into daylight that doesn’t help.
You can see him. That should be the turning point. Instead it’s the moment you learn what the title really means. Near isn’t the same thing as being held. Being near isn’t the same thing as being safe. Near can still be a kind of distance you can’t cross.
By the time you reach the end, there isn’t a lesson wrapped up with a ribbon. There’s something harder: recognition. The track doesn’t resolve the feeling. It tells the truth about it—and lets it ring out.
Where it came from
I don’t have clean access to this memory. I have the writing.
Back then, I kept journals the way some people keep photographs: not as private confession, but as deliberate craft. I would sit for hours, working and reworking lines, hunting for the exact word, testing phrases until they carried what I meant. Those pages weren’t “dear diary.” They were a place I built sentences strong enough to hold me.
That matters, because “Far but near” didn’t begin as a concept. It began as language that was already there—already finished—waiting in the archive for its second life.
When I go back to that time now, I don’t experience it like a movie I can replay. The details blur. The people become outlines. What I can trust is the emotional architecture the journals kept: the quiet fear, the desire that had to negotiate with silence, the way you can be young and intensely alive and still feel watched.
So this section isn’t me pretending I remember everything. It’s me being honest about the method: I return to the pages, and I work with what they preserved. I collaborate with the person who wrote them.
If you stay with the subject long enough, certain truths still surface with the stubborn clarity of weather.
A song made from distance
The title is not a metaphor. It is a measurement.
There are relationships that end with a clean break: a last argument, a door shutting, a decision you can quote. Then there are the ones that stretch. They refuse to become a story with an ending. They keep changing shape long after you think you’ve walked away.
This song lives in that second category—the kind of closeness that doesn’t require contact, only obsession. The kind where you can go weeks without hearing a voice and still feel that person in your bloodstream.
In the lyric, the phone becomes a small altar. I haven’t called because the silence feels safer. The line is as true now as it was then. Silence is a choice you can pretend is protection. It is also a sentence you give yourself.
The voice in my head, and the voice on the track
I’m seventeen in Belfast when this happens—too young for what I’m feeling, and old enough to know I’m not supposed to be feeling it.
I’ve known Mark for about a month. There’s been a quick kiss—just enough contact to turn someone into a spell. And I do what you do at seventeen when your whole nervous system has decided a person is the answer: I obsess. I rehearse conversations. I build entire days around the possibility of seeing a face.
The problem is I don’t know what I don’t know yet.
I don’t know if he's a party boy. I don’t know the park has already had him by the time I show up with my little private seriousness. I don’t know that what feels like destiny on my side can feel like Tuesday to someone else.
That imbalance is the “voice in my head.” The track doesn’t narrate from the calm, adult future. It narrates from inside the teenage mind that can’t stop circling—wanting, bargaining, panicking, trying to read the world like it’s coded.
And Belfast is not a neutral place to have that kind of desire.
The song touches the thing you’re not meant to say out loud: sex in public. The private act dragged into daylight. The way the body does what it does, and the way the law names it a crime—twice over. Not just for where it happens, but for what it is.
In Belfast, the laws stayed longer. The Troubles gave the state a reason to keep its hands deeper in people’s lives. The same machinery built for “security” could be used to pry into bedrooms, to turn gay men into files, to make intimacy feel like evidence.
So the vocal sits the way it sits: close enough to feel like confession, but drowned in distance like someone still checking over their shoulder. The reverb isn’t style. It’s the room Belfast built around a young gay life—big, echoing, and never fully safe.
That’s why the track sounds like a mind speaking from inside its own cage. Not because it wants to be dramatic. Because that’s what it was like.
The summer of Oscar Wilde
I remember that summer by what I could not get enough of: Oscar Wilde. I read him the way some people read weather, or scripture, or a survival manual. I read the complete works and then started again. I couldn’t stop. I found myself in his sentences, not just in what he said, but in how he moved—how he could be dazzling and wounded in the same breath, how he could make a joke that carried a knife.
At seventeen, in Belfast, Wilde was the only smart gay man I knew of in any real way. Not a rumor. Not an insult thrown at someone in the street. Not a cautionary tale. A name you could hold in your hands, printed on a spine. A mind that had left evidence.
And I didn’t read him as “literature.” I read him as instructions.
How to speak without confessing. How to be visible without being caught. How to hide a message in style. How to say one thing and mean another and survive the gap. I sometimes wonder if that’s where my masking got its early training—the sense that the room is always watching, so you learn to perform a version of yourself that can pass inspection, even while the real self is behind the curtain.
Wilde mattered because he proved something I needed to prove: that a gay life existed here—not just in America, not just in whispers, not just in places I couldn’t reach. He was Irish. He was brilliant. He was destroyed by it. And he still left the work behind, like a flare.
There was also the living culture around him—the coded, ordinary ways men found each other.
On the train to Dublin you’d see it: a man with a Wilde book out in the cabin, not always being read, not always even opened. Sometimes it wasn’t “a book” at all. It was a flare. It was a look you could hold in your hands.
It had a simple energy to it—you don’t have to be alone.
And sometimes that was literal. Sometimes the Wilde book wasn’t leading to a conversation about Wilde at all. It was leading to a door that opened in Dublin, and three days shacked up with some fella you’d met between stations.
I can’t prove any individual story, and I don’t need to. The point is that the book could be enough. A shared reference. A door cracked open.
In that sense, Wilde wasn’t just my private obsession. He was a gateway. For Irish gay men, he was one of the first public shapes we could step into—an inheritance of language, wit, and danger. A way to be gay with a vocabulary, even when the law and the city insisted you should have none.
When the world around you is noisy with danger, you learn to recognize survival wherever it appears. That summer, survival had a green cover and a name everyone knew, and it kept me reading.
Young love, uneven gravity
At the heart of this song is the imbalance that can define first love.
On one side is intensity. Connection. The deep seriousness of feeling something that seems to rewire you.
On the other side is someone who lives for the moment. A party boy energy. Electric in a room. So alive that other people orbit it. And then, just as quickly, gone.
The lyrics are not only about wanting someone who is emotionally unreachable. They are also about the particular ache of seeing someone’s spirit drift away while their body is still right there in front of you. Near enough to touch. Far enough to lose.
The cruelest version of this isn’t rejection. It’s ambiguous. It’s the way a person can be kind and careless in the same breath. It’s the way you start doing the math of every sentence: was that a sign, or just noise? You become a scholar of tone.
I can still remember the physical sensation of those summers—heat on skin, too-bright afternoons, the static of crowds—while feeling like everything meaningful was happening somewhere slightly out of reach. A relationship can make you hyper-aware of daylight: the sun is strong, the world is loud, and you are carrying a private grief like a bruise under your clothes.
Belfast, silence, and the shadow of HIV
There is another story running underneath the romance, and it isn’t metaphor.
We lost Mark to HIV. He did disappear.
Not in the soft, symbolic way people sometimes mean when they talk about a “lost” love. In the literal way: a life getting thinner, options narrowing, the future reducing. And for those of us watching, the disappearance wasn’t sudden. It was incremental. It was the accumulation of choices, circumstances, and a world that made certain kinds of care—information, safety, honesty—harder to reach when you needed them most.
Being young and gay in Belfast meant living inside layers of silence. People knew about HIV, but it was not discussed openly. It still felt, to many, like an American problem. Meanwhile, friends began to disappear. The people you were building a community with. The first of my generation to die.
So yes, this is a love song. But it is also a witness statement. It is about wanting someone and also seeing, in real time, the things that were taking them.
It is hard to convey now, in a world where information is everywhere, how quiet fear used to be. Not absent—just unspoken. It lived in jokes, in detours, in the way people changed the subject mid-sentence. In the way you learned which doors to enter and which ones to avoid.
And grief did not arrive with ceremony. It arrived as rumors, as a name you stopped hearing, as an invitation that never came. It made the future feel provisional, like you were renting it month to month.
That pressure leaked into love. It made romance urgent and fragile. It made bodies precious and dangerous at the same time. It made attachment feel like a risk you took anyway, because what else were you supposed to do—live untouched?
Why I’m sharing this now
These songs are personal, but they are also historical, in the smallest human sense. They hold what official narratives rarely keep: the texture of a day, the feeling of a voice, the quiet panic behind a casual conversation.
Writing this post is my way of returning to that time without pretending I can fully retrieve it. I can only work with what remains, and with what comes back when the music makes room for memory.
I’m sharing it because I don’t want the story to stay trapped in the same place it began: inside a person who didn’t yet know how to speak.
If you’ve ever lived through a period where you were both discovering yourself and hiding yourself, you know how splitting it can feel. The outer life continues—work, errands, small talk—while the inner life becomes a separate country with its own weather, its own laws.
Music is one of the few ways to let those two lives touch. A song can carry what a conversation can’t. It can hold a contradiction without resolving it. It can keep a name alive without turning it into gossip.
Lyric notes (the meaning inside the words)
“I haven’t called because the silence feels safer”
This is avoidance as self-protection. The line doesn’t romanticize distance—it admits the logic of fear: silence feels like control, even when it’s loneliness.
“My mind’s a labyrinth of thoughts, growing stranger”
Not “deep thinking”—spiral thinking. The image is being lost inside the self, pacing the same corridors, making the world more unreal with every turn.
“Nothing to say to anyone but you / You’re the only one who sees what’s breaking through”
This is the isolation at the center of the song: one person has become the only witness that matters, which is also why the risk of reaching them is so high.
“There’s poison in a kiss disguised as bliss”
The kiss is real, but it carries a delayed cost. “Bliss” is the cover story; “poison” is what arrives later—obsession, hunger, humiliation.
“What a month of drowning in the abyss”
Time collapses into one extended panic. The month isn’t a sequence of days; it’s one continuous undertow.
“Why can’t I dream without this choking fear?”
Even the private space of sleep is contaminated. Fear isn’t just emotional—it’s physical (“choking”), like the body can’t get air.
“Mark, oh Mark, you’re far but near”
This is the title as a condition: proximity without access. He’s present in the mind (near), but unreachable in reality (far).
“I’m desperate just to see his face / Haunted by this hollow place / He’s been locked away, unreachable to me”
The chorus turns desire into captivity. The “locked away” feeling is about access: he’s not just absent—he’s barred. The “hollow place” is the world after the kiss, when nothing else feels solid.
“Called today, my voice a trembling lie”
The body betrays the attempt to sound normal. “Trembling” makes it immediate: this is a call made under pressure, not confidence.
“Used Orla as the reason why”
This is the most naked admission of strategy in the whole lyric: a cover story, a decoy name, a way to approach without confessing. It shows how closeted (or closeted-adjacent) desire teaches you to speak sideways.
“Really wanted Mark, the truth I can’t confide / But no one answered, emptiness inside”
The lyric names the core problem: truth can’t be said, and even the attempt to reach him is met with silence. The emptiness isn’t metaphor—it’s the aftershock of trying and failing.
“Left a note like a ghost’s confession”
A confession without a face. Presence without permission. The word “ghost” holds shame and invisibility—leaving evidence while trying not to be seen.
“Walked the park in morbid procession”
The walk is ritual. Not a casual stroll—something closer to mourning, moving through a public place with private dread.
“Reading Wilde as darkness gathered near”
Wilde becomes both shield and signal: a book in your hands when you can’t hold the real thing. (And the line also keeps the scene in the body—walking, reading, the day turning.)
“Then in the haze, two figures I could see / A mirage of hope tormenting me”
Hope appears as a visual mistake. “Mirage” is the key word: the eye offers relief, then reality corrects it.
“One shadow looked like Orla on the grass… Orla waved and reality set in”
This moment isn’t about myth—it’s about recognition. Orla is the first readable shape, the proof you’re in the right place, and then “reality” lands: Mark is there too, and the stakes return immediately.
“We spoke of nothing, words that fell away”
The cruelest part: contact without connection. The words don’t “fail” because they’re unskilled—they fail because the truth is unlivable in that moment.
“He vanished behind the brush one time / Hiding by the stream, committing some private crime”
The lyric turns the park into a place where desire is both acted out and hidden. “Crime” carries the danger in the background—shame, secrecy, the sense of something forbidden happening in daylight.
“Oh Mark, why can’t you stay?”
This isn’t a request for romance. It’s a request for presence—for him to remain reachable for longer than a moment.
“Not his body, but something I held dear”
The heartbreak is spiritual. He doesn’t disappear physically; what disappears is whatever the narrator thought the connection meant.
“Oh Mark, watch me come unfurled”
The ending isn’t neat closure—it’s the threat of unraveling. The song doesn’t promise healing; it tells the truth about what obsession does to a person when it has nowhere to go.
“There’s poison in a kiss disguised as bliss.”
The kiss is the hook, but it’s also the toxin.
It’s the way one quick moment can turn into a month of hunger. The lyric tells you the bargain: what felt like “bliss” in the moment becomes the thing that keeps hurting you afterward. A first kiss that doesn’t open a relationship—it opens a wound.
“What a month of drowning in the abyss.”
This is time behaving badly.
A month should be ordinary. Here it’s a single extended panic—days collapsing into one long underwater stretch. Drowning isn’t just sadness; it’s the body’s alarm system going off constantly. And abyss isn’t poetic decoration—it’s the feeling that there is no bottom where you can stand.
“Why can I dream without this choking fear?”
The song draws a line between night and day.
In dreams you can have him. In waking life you can’t even breathe. The word choking is specific: fear isn’t an emotion, it’s a hand at the throat. The lyric isn’t asking for romance. It’s asking for air.
“I’m desperate just to see his face.”
This is the humiliating purity of teenage want.
Not sex. Not status. Not closure. Just a face.
The desperation is the point: it’s love reduced to a single need that the body insists on. It also shows how unbalanced the situation is—because to be desperate for a face is already to be losing.
“Called today, my voice a trembling lie.”
The song turns the phone into a courtroom.
Calling should be simple. Here it’s staged, rehearsed, and dishonest because honesty is too risky. Trembling means the body is giving you away even when the words won’t. The lie isn’t just to Mark—it’s to the self, the attempt to sound normal while the inner life is on fire.
“Used our lies as the reason why.”
This line is brutal because it admits complicity.
It’s not just “he lied” or “I lied.” It’s our lies—the shared fictions people build when the truth would cost too much. Sometimes the relationship is made of exactly that: two people agreeing not to name what’s happening.
“Left a note like a ghost confession.”
If the call fails, the song goes to haunt.
A note is contact without confrontation. A confession without a witness. Ghost implies shame and invisibility: you leave proof you were there, but you don’t want to be seen leaving it.
“The park was crowded… false faces floating everywhere.”
Crowds are supposed to protect you. Here they erase you.
The line turns the park into a theatre of ordinary life that you can’t enter. Everyone else has a face that works. Yours is the one that’s breaking.
“Then in the haze, two figures I could see.”
This is the moment the song becomes cruel.
For a second, distance looks like hope. Two figures in a haze is almost cinematic—until you realize the haze is not romance, it’s denial.
“One shadow looked like Galahad on the grass.”
A name matters.
Galahad carries purity, legend, something “noble.” The lyric uses that nobility to sharpen the contrast with what comes next. It’s also how the mind works under stress: it reaches for story shapes—myth, archetype—because plain reality is too hard to hold.
“Shorts and t-shirt, unconscious and alone.”
The details are physical because you’re trying to make the scene real.
This is the body you came for. But the body is not the person you wanted. Unconscious can read as literal (passed out) and emotional (unreachable). Either way: the person is present and absent at once.
“He vanished behind the brush one time… committing some private crime.”
This is the line where the song’s world shows itself.
It’s not just jealousy. It’s terrifying.
Sex isn’t simply sex here—it’s something that can be policed, punished, used. The word crime holds both meanings: the literal illegality of public sex, and the deeper Belfast fact that gay sex could be treated as criminal, a handle for surveillance and shame.
So even desire becomes evidence, and the park becomes a place where the body is always at risk of being turned into a charge.
“We spoke of nothing.”
The most devastating line in the song might be the smallest.
Nothing means: no truth, no apology, no naming. It’s small talk as self-defense. And it’s the moment you realize you are close enough to talk and still too far to be met.
“Oh Mark, you’re far but near.”
The title line isn’t romantic. It’s diagnostic.
It describes the particular torture of this kind of attachment: you can see him, you can hear him, you can stand in the same place—and still not reach him. The chorus keeps repeating because the mind can’t stop testing the same wound: maybe if I say it again, it will change.
“Will I ever be free?”
This is the question under everything.
Not “will he love me,” but “will I stop.”
The song knows the obsession has become its own prison. Freedom, here, isn’t a breakup. It’s a nervous system finally unclenching—finally letting the name go quiet.
“Far but near” begins with the safest kind of honesty—I haven’t called—and spends six minutes proving what that safety costs. It moves from private fear to public daylight, from a voice stuck in the phone to a body in the park, from wanting to knowing. By the end, the title stops being poetry and becomes a fact: someone can be close enough to see and still unreachable in every way that matters.
This is a song for the people we loved unevenly, and for the people we lost before we had the words to name what was happening.If you want to hear more music built from that same method—songs made from the archive, from the pages, from the exact language that survived—listen to The Answer Engine. It’s my ongoing project of turning journal work into tracks without sanding down the truth: the younger voice stays intact, and the production becomes the way I carry it forward.
Lyrics
Verse 1
I haven't called because the silence feels safer
My mind's a labyrinth of thoughts, growing stranger
Nothing to say to anyone but you
You're the only one who sees what's breaking through
Verse 2
There's poison in a kiss disguised as bliss
What a month of drowning in the abyss
Why can't I dream without this choking fear?
Mark, oh Mark, you're far but near
Chorus
I'm desperate just to see his face
Haunted by this hollow place
He's been locked away, unreachable to me
Oh Mark, will I ever be free?
Verse 3
Called today, my voice a trembling lie
Used Orla as the reason why
Really wanted Mark, the truth I can't confide
But no one answered, emptiness inside
Verse 4
Left a note like a ghost's confession
Walked the park in morbid procession
Reading Wilde as darkness gathered near
The sun beat down but couldn't pierce my fear
Chorus
I'm desperate just to see his face
Haunted by this hollow place
He's been locked away, unreachable to me
Oh Mark, will I ever be free?
Bridge
The park was crowded, suffocating air
False faces floating everywhere
Then in the haze, two figures I could see
A mirage of hope tormenting me
Verse 5
One shadow looked like Orla on the grass
The other moving like a memory that won't pass
Shorts and t-shirt, unconscious and alone
A phantom rhythm, chilling to the bone
Verse 6
Orla waved and reality set in
Walked toward them, heavy limbs and skin
Mark turned with sunglasses hiding eyes
My heart was sinking, dying inside
Chorus
Now I'm staring at his distant face
So close but in another place
We spoke of nothing, words that fell away
Oh Mark, why can't you stay?
Verse 7
We talked of people, hollow voices crack
But I felt myself fading into black
Mark kept saying how bored he was today
While I was dying in every way
Verse 8
Orla and I, we watched him disappear
Not his body, but something I held dear
He vanished behind the brush one time
Hiding by the stream, committing some private crime
Final Chorus
I'm still searching for his fading face
Summer days in this cursed place
Even when he's near, he's slipping from my world
Oh Mark, watch me come unfurled
Outro
(Summer dies and Mark's lost face)
(In the dark, our hollow place)
(Oh Mark, oh Mark...)