music or something from a character.
A short story about a character. His name is Joe. He reminds me of all these people I see, that I talk to. Parts stolen from everyone, all put into this character who is less than a person and yet more than a person all at the same time. I think this is a diary style entry, from the eyes of Joe.
Oftentimes I wake up around 9am. I sit up, look around my room at the odd posters I’ve hung, the paintings from past lovers, and the kleenex I tossed on the floor last night as my allergies went wild.( I understand this is quite gross, don’t worry, I pick them up.) This morning I woke up with a headache, a splitting one. One that feels like a chasm of pain has opened up inside your head causing every fibre of you to look outside and see stars that aren’t there, and see worlds of nothingness that are really just cars going by below your window.
As often happens each morning I wake up, around 9am, I turn on music. I grab my phone, look through my playlists and select one. Oftentimes it's random, or whatever I had on the night before. The music is connected to a record player/speaker that sits among the bookshelves I have lining my room. I don’t have any records but I like the look of it so I’ve adopted it as my speaker for playing songs off my phone early and late in the days I suffer through.
Is it cliche’ to be like, “I love music.”? I don’t know that it is but at the same time, everyone loves music. It’s just a thing people do. And I think the reason for that is simple. It connects memories to us, it connects pieces of our lives to other people within our lives in a manner a full story or photo wouldn’t be able to.
This however, seems to be an issue for me. As every song connects to a former friend, lover, or delusional situationship that I have experienced. I’ve always been scared of losing the connection to the people I love, or have loved, or did love me, and keeping my songs, the music I play in connection with them every day can sometimes lead to a place of despair. Of pain. As the first love I had held music that stretched for ages, the amount of songs I’ve come back to and wept as I thought there were simply for us, is uncountable. And then friends that have passed, songs we listened to driving home from late nights of whatever we did as teens, create this dissatisfaction in how I thought our lives would turn out. Each of these poignant reminders each day paints this irreverent story that I have no business telling. The love I had for her was something out of a book, and the love I had for my friends is something we all experienced. There is no coming back, or recreating the stories you tell when you hear a certain song, but maybe that’s the point. And maybe one day the hope will eventually become the reality that someone will have.
