The value of music, aside from its inherently substantial power of bringing beauty into our lives, is its other substantial power of providing us with a better rear view. For someone who is constantly looking back, constantly looking back, a habit that never ceases, never stops…ever. A means of self-torment, self-loathing, self-soothing and sometimes self-whipping, mostly self-whipping, for someone like me, music provides me with all the necessary details for a clear image of how things used to be. Transcending all the memory blockages, all the time barriers, all the rivers, oceans and continents. All I have to do is listen to the right song and here it is in front of me, vivid as if real, the dark river with its strong odour, the wide pavement, the three benches, the trees, the man playing his guitar and the image of him scorched on my heart. There I was, thinking about how my burden was lightened but my heart was aching, congested with a million emotions, wanting to explode.
There I sat on a bench, calm as a rock that encloses a volcano, and the lava spilling on my soul. I listen to a melancholic melody from my neighbour’s guitar and think of him, who was always the comfort in my life. I never really thought of him as my rock or my support system as most girls do, but comfort, immense warmth, a laughter that embraces the whole house like a baby’s chuckle. The beauty, the happiness, the warmth that his presence inspired could never be imagined until his absence denied me them all.
And I, calm as a rock, readily crumbling into ashes, leaving my seat by the river with the sad melody coming to an end. And there and then I bid farewell to him and him. The one who has been the sole comfort of my life and him who has been the source of all heartache.
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