The woman with whom I reside is an old friend to Chopin. In the evening she makes me green tea and plays him on vinyl on her record player that is nearly a suitcase. (Sometimes I think she may pick up and leave with just her record player and a handful of books; she is intriguing and beautiful) The way the music moves over my skin and plays hide n’ seek in the spaces between my bones soothes me and leads me to a quiet place in my mind where I am more myself than I am in the light of day. It is the place from where I write, from where the words spring forward, inking themselves to my heart as they concurrently seep to the parchment before me. This feeling is not perceptible; the process in which my heart becomes tangible, is not tangible. However paradoxical, there are no guidelines to feelings, it is only what you do feel, and what you don’t. And in this case, in the case of unattainable music, (that’s how I describe the way music exists in my life; unattainable, due to lack of musical intuition) I drown myself in the suspended spirits as much as I can, bathing my essence in note after note, dipping my toes in the nameless sensations that are only, only induced by music. I feel words stronger than I feel music, but they are entirely different to me. Music is hard to feel, I have to try. Words are effortless; poetry is effortless. I always wished that I could feel the music as I feel the words. I have grown; I have come to feel more, my body evolving to sway with the sounds and peak at the peaks of climatic melodic epiphany. What I am is just a hybrid of high-waited jeans and flower crowns, insatiable and patronized because I live for the hunt of the notes scratched between pages of original printed novels. This is not accepted, my urge to feel one with the past by means of classical Chopin on vinyl and my days spent in graveyards rather than shopping malls is not typical to my age group or understood by my elders. This is who I am; a jumble of misinterpreted melodies and fragmented stanzas, not even full poems because finished, they betray me.
The first song I ever felt was sad. I wonder how the woman who falls asleep beneath the windows of our bedroom relives the sadness of the music day after day. Or if one day, perhaps, I will feel it like she does; if one day I will pack up my fragments and jumbles, and leave.