Once, there was a writer. She did typical writer things: pondered, daydreamed, felt, gave, took, drained, hurt, loved, and was always stuck being 100%.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
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wow, that really got to me. I can't describe in words how that made me feel, seriously. Great job, i dunno what else to say other than wow.
ReplyDeleteVery interesting post - I like!
ReplyDeleteBy the way, there's no 'p' in dreamt, unless you wet the bed :)