Music and the Madness Within

There is a music playing somewhere in my head. It flows out, surrounds the room, envelopes me with its playing, lightly snatching, notes. I know a hunger I have never known before. I remember things I had assumed unseen. The music plays on, amazingly mysterious, delightfully light, and there is joy. Joy. Exquisite pain. Sorrow. Despair. There is hopelessness intertwined with dreams I thought I was incapable of dreaming any more. The music tugs at memories I never thought I would have the courage to remember.

Glimpses hurry by of things, whether imagined or real, I can not differentiate. They have always been there, and too much time has rushed by. I remember companionship, forced, accepted, beloved, lost. Something stabs. It chokes. Friends, who are still there, friendships, which are no more. There is a mist I have to see through to realize which way my thoughts are headed for. There are mountains, wise, steady, old, yet, young. There are valleys, and snowfall. I feel again the first snowflake, soft, cold, perhaps like the heart I pretend I have. The music plays on, makes me remember more. Its my Ghost of the Christmas Past.

There is me. Me. So many me's. The writer, the fool, the joker, the student, the liarthe one who talks so much, the one who revels in tragedy, the one who craves drama, the one who never rests, the one who is cold and unfeeling, and the one who never ceases to weep. I remain amazed at all that I have been and all that I am. I look for myself, the one which is my true self. I find none. I am too many people. The music gives me no time to feel shattered. I pass shaded trees and glistening droplets, the music guiding me all the way. I wonder at my fear of my stories, too scared to let imagination reign. This was not me. Not the one who thought and wrote and lived somewhere else everyday. What had happened in the last few years to kill the courage to explore my own thoughts. Why did the stranger affect me so much?

There is a stranger. So unknown, it hurts. But never ceases to fascinate. For I see myself mirrored in him, every trait, every hesitation, every word, they come from me. Yet, someone else speaks them. I do not have the courage to ask him why his presence, his existence, the fact that he is there, known to me, bothers me so much. Or ask him why indeed is he there, why did he want us to know each other. Things had been so much happier before. Not happier. The music refutes the word. They had been safer. Now, its an uncharted territory whilst I move along with a mutiny in my heart.

I am ad libber. The one who speaks her mind. The one who makes things up as she goes. Why are my thoughts so controlled, my actions so proper? Then I know the truth, a truth which does not set me free. While the music ends, joyously, resonating, vibrating, shimmering with love and hope and happiness, I realize being ad libber was the biggest lie of all.