I love music. I love the way notes and melodies unite and blend to create something whose beauty is almost tangible. I love how the lyrics meld themselves to that beauty and give birth to an orgasmic explosion of meaning. I love music, but unfortunately, I cannot carry a tune to save my life! It is a disability I find very unfortunate solely because I have found that some feelings just cannot be expressed in any way other than through music.
Every once in a while, those feelings bombard me, and I can no longer keep it in; the beauty, the joy, anger or sadness. When my smile can no longer express the bright fire burning within, when my sobs fail to represent the keening cries of my heart, at those times, I sing. I let go of my (many) inhibitions and limitations. My boundaries blur into vast nothingness, and I sing. But since using my vocal apparatus would be tragic for any one within ear shot, I found a way of sparing their lives.
I learned how to channel my voice through my body and have it course through my veins, vibrate through my hand to my microphone; the pen. Adele's rasp, Emeli's lilt and Asa's tone, they all combine and flow freely from my pen onto paper. Sometimes not in a very legible way, but always my way, I make music. And for those few soaring moments, in my own world, I am Adele, Emeli and Asa combined and multiplied. I hit every note and take all the risks; I am every single bit as confident and sure of myself as any superstar. I am even Grammy-worthy, if only because I pour my very soul into it.
Each note I write, each emotion immortalized in lines and dots, I place in my treasure chest. Good upon bad memories, squiggly among straight words, wrinkled and perhaps tear-stained sheets, all safely in my chest.
And when I'm spent, I quietly go back to the random hum in the bath, and to intoxicated singing along, awaiting my next chance to make music of my emotions.
Yes, my life may be a journey that must come to an end, but these moments I live for, they last for ever, bubbling pools that'll never ever dry up. In a few years, I will open up my chest and I will be glad to find each and every one of its contents; the sticks and stones, the sequins and sapphires. I do not need to like them to cherish them.
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