Music

Forget all the substances used to soothe, to calm, to relieve. Music is the best self-medication available. For years, I’d listen to others wail, jam and rock, using their pain and joy to help me feel better about whatever I needed to accept. It wasn’t until moments ago that I realized how big a crutch they were to actual self-discovery. Creating my own music has allowed me to think, reason and relax hundreds of times better than relying on the passions of others.

It started softly, finger-plucking a low E. What was I doing? Why was I hurting Her? The first three strings of an E minor gave way to insight. Then, a G, a C, a D with added seventh. I was acting immature. As my feelings soared, so did the tone of the strings. Lows and highs, I fought with them all.

Her words formed a soft chorus behind the notes. She was the music now. I thought of every word said, every emotion felt, and ever time I’d make Her hurt. The music got dark, loud, and strong. My mind raced as She challenged so many of my ideals. Through the A minors and Ds, I heard my ideals shift as the key did. They didn’t rest right in key with the soft chorus She composed, but they weren’t the same notes I’d began with; however, the song was almost perfect.

The pain in the letters, in the words, in the notes resounded throughout my entire body as I shook and strummed. Her chorus picked up. My guitar picked up. I listened as they fought, louder and louder and louder. With a sudden twang, my guitar was instantly muted by a broken G string. Her chorus rang out, clear, loud, hurt. In love. Heartbroken. Fed up.

I worried about the string, looked at the music I was making. Was this best? Was Her voice, singing with all of Her passion alone the best? Hearing the soulful tones and deeper meanings of the bridge made me doubt that very much. I couldn’t just give up, even though I was missing a string. Her song was so different from anything else I’ve ever heard, anything else I’ve ever felt or related with. Songs have ended before, strings have been broken before, but She wasn’t any song I’d ever been a part of.

Slowly, I worked my way back into the song. Listening to her intonation, to Her beautiful hurting pitch, I knew this song was mine no longer. I was a guest here, but a welcome one. This song wasn’t mine any longer, but it took me a few empty measures to realize that it wasn’t hers either. There was no audience to perform before. We weren’t playing for anyone other than ourselves. That is exactly why this song was so important. One string down, I began again. I finger-plucked a low E. I worked back into the chords I had played before, but each one felt… different. Every one was unlike any I’d strummed before. It was as if the broken string was nothing but a doubt, a looming worry, strung and tuned only to throw me off. My chords picked up, and soon met with Her voice in brilliance and passion.

It was clear that She was the star of my show. I backed off. She looked at me with such love, such pure, pristine compassion, and smiled. She backed off. I was the star of Her show. Back and forth we went, putting the other in the spotlight, exactly where we knew they deserved to be. The result was nothing short of beauty. A slow, loving, caring, finally, finally understanding decrescendo that descended past the point of silence, continuing further and further, playing music so soft, so quiet, so absolutely perfect that it vibrated our hearts and minds more deeply than any note ever before played.

The song was far from over. She helped me realize it. I kicked myself for being so blind, so deaf, to take this long to realize She wasn’t singing to impress anyone. She was singing with the love She had for me, unrelenting and courageous. It hurt Her to sing alone, and I finally realized how much I had erred this whole time. I was playing because of Her. I was playing for Her. I was playing so we could share this single musical moment together, and upon that realization, I realized that I never ever wanted to stop playing this song with Her.