The Meaning of Music
Music is a melodic moan; a muse for mourning melancholic moods and the manic mayhem which meanders through time. It is the master of mind and soul.
Music masquerades materialistic matter. It masks meaningless methods of our existence with motive. It mingles madness into a four-minute aural meditation on life - life vignettes, motionless, yet emotionally moving.
Music is not meek; it's magical. It's an eternal vessel for mercurial messages. Messages which must be heard; messages which we may mull over, but ultimately nurture; messages which we may never understand, but nevertheless welcome mercifully.
Music is how I'd communicate, if there were no such thing as speech. If music were wind, I would like to be in a hurricane. If music were a mother, I would like to be in it's womb forever.
If I were music, I would like to be immortal.
A Minute of My Memoir
I listen to my mother groan from my bedroom; her gentle, velvety voice mimicking childish sobs amid animal grunts.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GAHHHHHD!” Thump! Thump! … Thump! “Somebody help me! Some ... ah ah … body ... heheheeelp meeeee!” she cries and heaves from what seems like fear.
I hide my head under my pillow, and pretend I am camping in Africa; or that I am an unseen witness to a murder in an abandoned graffiti-coloured crime district. I cradle my teddies, close to my chest, covered head to toe with my duvet, and whisper, “There’s no need to be scared. I’m here. Shhh, don’t cry.” I stick my fingers in my ears so hard it hurts, so all I hear is fluff and my mum’s muffled moans.
Silence. I tip-toe out of bed and peer through the crack of the kitchen door. The room smells like sweat, toxic breath, menstruation blood, and remnants of the canned salmon pasta we ate for dinner. Is she dead? No. Dad is there. He gives her a sleeping pill, prepares a hot water bottle, and rubs her back while she crouches down on all fours, wearing nothing but a pair of underpants that have lost their elasticity. Her wet stringy hair is stuck to her neck and forehead. Her naked, paper thin breasts are hanging from her chest, her face is twisted, and black eye-liner is smeared across her temples, cheeks and earlobes; she’s like a gothic Neanderthal giving birth to its offspring.
No matter how many pills mum takes, nothing soothes her. She takes her tablet courage, month after month, in the hope that something, anything, will ease her pain. But little do we know, this is only the beginning. This is a paradoxical reaction.
So, have any of you got little scary childhood memories that you would like to share?
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