Sound Tracks

I used to burst at the seams. My tears ran hot, like blood dripping down an open cut. I sang a song that made me feel at home, and foreign in my own skin, all at once.

I am strong, I repeated to myself. I have values I'd like to uphold. Covid hit, I was yelled at inside a Whole Foods for not following security guidelines. I touched a "dirty basket" and was ostracized. I felt unsafe. I wore an N-95, was made fun of by a conservative guy. Such was life.

The song I sang isn't important. It isn't important for a lot of reasons. The first being: isn't music just an extension of our psyches? Shouldn't it all be celebrated, and not told to follow the rules like a society in ruins?

You touched a dirty basket, said security. Judgement day looks a lot like 2020.

The song made me smile. I am strong, I repeated to myself. I have values I'd like to uphold. I made it through, to the modern day. And I have only luck - and maybe a vaccine - to thank.

The song made me resilient. It reminded me of Taylor Swift - please don't stop reading this. I wanted to feel whole, to be well, to have a mind that didn't rattle like loose glass in a window.

The song made me notice life, in its entirety. It was like a grammatically correct essay, a gun with all its bullets, a lake with swans and full of secret meaning, ecstasy.

It was a way out in a broken environment, a healing touch, a prophecy. Should I keep going? Or is music heard only when it's listened to, and not merely described by a poor writer?

I still feel warm and fuzzy when listening to it. I press my fingers to my temples, bless the feeling, put the "dirty" behind me.