Music, Emotions and Other Complex Things

If someone ever asks to explain what music is to me, I won't be able to. Not in coherent terms anyway. Because in all honestly, I don't understand much about it. Not the chords my favorite musician is hitting and not the notes of that particular part of the song I've been listening to for a week on repeat, the part that fills my chest with something indescribably warm and pleasant. And maybe that's okay, maybe it is not a necessity to understand every little thing about it to be able to love it but I wonder if it's normal to lean so heavily on music for comfort, to look for some sort of escape and tranquility and liberation in it all at the same time and yet not know anything about it except for the way it makes me feel.

Fading in the Present

These days I find myself drifting into memories of my childhood.
I think of the way we used to fight for our places in our classrooms, claiming them ours as though that part of the world belonged to us, our names etched in the corner of our desks and carved in the walls of the hallways, marking our presence.
The way our voices raced to climb each other's until we felt like we were heard.

The way we crashed and burned and laughed our days away.

The way we left parts of ourselves everywhere we went, burying them under the earth for someone to find when we are gone.

And the way the mountains echoed back our names when we shouted them in the dark.

Of a Girl Even You Couldn't Break

The first time you saw her, you could only think about how you would like to lock her smile somewhere only you could see it. How you envied the wind carrying her laughter to the parts of the world unknown to you. How you wanted to narrow the world down to the walls of your house where  it would echo around every corner and fill all the abandoned spaces. And like a child who was never taught to hear "no", you could not let her drift away, could not leave her alone.

A Girl Who Could Never Be Brave Enough | Fragments from the Diary of a Lost Girl

September 16, 2017

Dear diary,

I was never a brave girl. When I was six, I fell down the stairs of my school and hurt my head. There were no serious injuries but I still ran home crying and screamed and screamed for my father until he enclosed me in his arms, whispering soothing words all the while. When I was eleven, I fell while trying to skate. With scratched elbows, bleeding knees, shaking body and barely contained sobs, I reached home. Swallowed my tears, tried to put on a brave facade and told my father in a high pitched, wobbly voice that I was okay, I was okay, I was okay. I think those words for me just as much as they were for my father who was staring at me with something like sympathy in his eyes. Eyes that could see through me. Eyes that made me feel fragile, breakable, weak when all I wanted was for him to say, "Yes, my baby girl. It's all okay. Look how brave you've become!".