Harlow

United States

A human that does stuff with words among other humans who do other stuff with words

DEEP THOUGHT WINNERS: Zalma and MarSan!!

Message from Writer

Hello, world! I’m a writer and a podcaster and a lonely potato. Enjoy my half-decent ramblings!
Podcast: https://anchor.fm/texttospeech
Bandcamp: heads-tails.bancamp.com

Islands

September 10, 2019

Music is an island I've found in the turbulent seas of adolescence. It speaks to me in a language of rhythm and melodies that can't be specified. As I listen to the light guitar or dreamy synth or clashing bass of a good song, I slowly feel a little bit better; I no longer ache. The weight of conformity, the brevity of each day, the pain of battling my turmoil all lessen as I melt away into the sands of musical islands. 
    Blasting the cacophonous sounds of the Front Bottoms, as I usually would on Saturday, I enter the cool, moist air of the Guitar Center, my eyes devouring the sight of sleek, slender guitars on all sides. I creep into the warmer, wetter air of the acoustic room and lift gently a guitar no bigger than I. As I slip my fingers into the position on the ragged nylon strings, a sense of tranquility overtakes me. My chest, usually tight with foreboding, loosens and I allow myself to breathe. Slowly, at first, I strum each string to savor the sweet sounds that so delicately bring me back to a soft serenity I haven't felt in years. Watching intently, a worker guides me to the register with the biggest smile I've ever seen. 
I could crumble
under the weight
of life,
but I haven’t. 
Not yet. 
I fight through each day with
the uncertainty of tomorrow
weighing me down. 
Tomorrow isn’t a promise, but I try. 
I’ve got my music
tomorrow
and that’s what keeps me going.
 
    I sit intently, listening quietly to the faint scratching of my record player working to play the last track of Bob Marley's album and rereading my poem. I take in each keystroke and syllable, rolling the sounds slowly over my tongue and digest the words I had planned meticulously for hours. The distant, rich scent of cocoa butter and peppermint oil tickle my nose as Marley's exotic vocals fill the spaces between my thoughts and I think of tomorrow. As my computer shuts off, I finally sleep. 
Strumming, humming, buzzing, tapping. I can't stop playing for anything.
And playing heals me. I'm not worthless or useless. I'm just me.
And I only want to be me so I don't stop playing.

    I reread the words on my screen over and over, futilely trying to lessen a pain that wouldn't leave for some time. Encased in a pale grey text bubble, I think of all the times over the years those same words had been said to me. I had always thought it'd be easier to deal with behind a screen, as though I were somehow protected by the useless piece of glass and metal the now burned my trembling hand. I tramp silently to my guitar case that leans lackadaisically against my worn oak bookshelf and gingerly remove the cool wooden mass that lays waiting. I place my fingers along the fretboard and lightly finger every single string as a single tear rolls down my cheek. I read the screen a final time and yell a blood-curdling scream. I can read the word if I close my eyes too long. I stare straight ahead. 
Rock
is the biggest finger to society. 
That’s exactly
why I love it. 

    I sit idly at the end of the lunch table, watching my new peers laugh and yell and chatter. Bits and pieces of gossip and sports standings and video game releases bore me as I keep twirling the oddly moist spaghetti on a plastic fork. A girl, her short, dark hair glistening in the fluorescent light takes the seat across from me, nearly startling me from my chair. She nods towards my shirt and smiles, passing me a single sheet of paper across the table. I read the single link on the paper along with the phone number. "Sarah," she says, extending a slender, sinewy hand for me to shake, "Figured I'd talk to the new girl with such great taste in music." I smile across at her gently and scribble out a note for her. She reads it and smiles. "'Teenagers' seems like your kind of song. You seem like a 'Screw the Man' kind of girl. Nice to meet you, Harlow."  
I exhaled slowly as the eighth graders and the bus driver and the idling engine gave away to my savior, my solace, my lifeline, my music. Yes.
    I don't know what it was about this morning, but it seemed as if the world was speeding by me and I was stuck in place; perhaps because I hadn't slept well last night since I was engrossed in the book Sarah insisted I read.Sarah and I have become fast friends since that first note-passing months ago, strangely inseparable considering our short history. I listen to our newest playlist, consisting of cavetown and the Front Bottoms, much to her dismay. 
    The bus's brakes squeal as we slowly pull into the lanes outside the school and the listless chatter of yesterday's math homework and the latest Bachelorette episode quiets. I stow my phone into the crevices of my backpack, somewhere behind a slimy, open-faced PB and J and last week's English essay. Blankly humming "Tie Dye Dragon," I join Sarah at our usual post near the flagpole. She introduces me to a group of her friends, Sam, Taina, and Caroline, who wear matching cavetown hoodies and smile softly at me. I nod in return and we exchange numbers to further expand our playlist.
In many tongues and many places and many hearts, 
we all just want somewhere
that we belong
    
In most of human history, music has been used to tell stories, settle conflicts, and build bonds. The human connection that's born from music is one of the most unbreakable bonds there is. Humans are people of companionship. In any way possible, we'll bond. The way I bond and feel and live best is through music. That is my human connection

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