I wrote a little story last year. It was about music and its potential power and beauty.
It explored the terrifying notion of how it might feel to exist without music in our world. It was a tender little piece. A few words for a fun little contest. Shot out and carried away on the shimmering wind. But it had magic, for all its lightness and air. It had depth.
“She’ll leave. No warnings. No demands. She’ll just go. And she’ll take the music with her. We’re the forest of the sounds.”
I wrote it, I think, when I was spending time my dad, just before he started dying. A sad time, but also a time I’ll always treasure. Time we spent singing. And crying from all the joy it gave us.
And, now, I sing to remember what that felt like. But mostly I sing for the love of the song. For the joy of it in my bones.
And tonight I rediscovered that little story of the lost song.
So, I think; really? What did you know, little brain, that you wouldn’t tell me? Or what did you tell me that I couldn’t hear back then? But you saved it for me, I think. I truly do.
When we write fiction we think we can put some sort of partition between our minds, our own selves, and our imagination.
We’re just fooling ourselves. In the most beautiful of ways. We’re always there, even when we think we’re not. Especially when we think we’re not.
Wonderful, isn’t it.