Music
Birds chirping
I’m sitting here in this coffee shop, surrounded by the ambient hum of strangers’ conversations, the clatter of cups, and the hiss of the espresso machine, trying to concentrate on studying. But the truth is, my mind is miles away, caught up in something else entirely—something that’s been quietly sneaking up on me, like an old friend I haven’t seen in years. It’s music. And I don’t just mean the music that’s playing now, this carefully curated Spotify playlist designed to fit some algorithm’s idea of what I should like. No, I mean music—the kind that used to feel like it was part of me, like it was embedded in my DNA.
Growing up, music was everything. It was my identity, my sanctuary, the thing that made sense when nothing else did. I remember the thrill of buying CDs, the physical act of picking them out, holding them in my hands, feeling their weight, the crispness of the booklet tucked inside, the anticipation as I peeled off the plastic and placed the disc into my stereo. I had a whole collection, neatly arranged in my room—a kind of shrine to the artists and songs that shaped me. And it wasn’t just the music itself; it was the whole experience. There was something comforting, something grounding, in the tangible reality of those CDs. Even now, I prefer the feel of a CD, a book, a magazine—things you can touch, things that are real.
Back in college, music was my social currency. My dorm room door was always open, blasting whatever I was obsessed with at the time, a silent invitation for anyone passing by to pop in, to share in the sound. I remember this one time, a shy girl asked a friend of mine to tell me that I had good taste in music. She never told me herself, but the message got through, and it meant something. Music was the thing that spoke for me when I couldn’t find the words, that validated my feelings in ways I couldn’t articulate. It was my connection to the world, to others, and to myself.
But somewhere along the way, I lost that. There was a period, particularly when I lived in the UK, when I just…stopped listening. I don’t know why. Maybe life got too loud, or maybe I got too quiet. It was like I’d shut down that part of myself, the part that used to find so much meaning in a song, in a melody. It’s strange how you can drift away from something that once felt so essential, so integral to who you are.
And now, here I am, in this coffee shop, music playing in the background, and out of nowhere, I feel this surge of emotion. It’s like the music is pulling me back, back to those moments in my dorm room, back to the afternoons spent lying on my bed, headphones on, letting the world fade away. It’s bringing me back to a time when I was more vulnerable, more open to the things that mattered, that made me feel seen, understood, alive. It’s strange, but I feel like I’m reconnecting with that part of myself that I’d buried, the part that felt deeply, that found solace and strength in music.
And I guess that’s what this is all about, this break I’m taking. Maybe it’s a time to heal, to rediscover those pieces of myself that got lost along the way. Music was, and is, that for me—a way to tap into something deeper, something raw and real. It was my identity, my comfort, my truth. And sitting here, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes, I realize just how much I’ve missed it.
So yeah, I’m that person crying in public at a coffee shop. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s more than okay. Maybe it’s exactly what I need right now. To feel, to remember, to reconnect. To let music be what it always was—a way to find myself again.
11:21am August 16, 2024
Growing up, music was everything. It was my identity, my sanctuary, the thing that made sense when nothing else did. I remember the thrill of buying CDs, the physical act of picking them out, holding them in my hands, feeling their weight, the crispness of the booklet tucked inside, the anticipation as I peeled off the plastic and placed the disc into my stereo. I had a whole collection, neatly arranged in my room—a kind of shrine to the artists and songs that shaped me. And it wasn’t just the music itself; it was the whole experience. There was something comforting, something grounding, in the tangible reality of those CDs. Even now, I prefer the feel of a CD, a book, a magazine—things you can touch, things that are real.
Back in college, music was my social currency. My dorm room door was always open, blasting whatever I was obsessed with at the time, a silent invitation for anyone passing by to pop in, to share in the sound. I remember this one time, a shy girl asked a friend of mine to tell me that I had good taste in music. She never told me herself, but the message got through, and it meant something. Music was the thing that spoke for me when I couldn’t find the words, that validated my feelings in ways I couldn’t articulate. It was my connection to the world, to others, and to myself.
But somewhere along the way, I lost that. There was a period, particularly when I lived in the UK, when I just…stopped listening. I don’t know why. Maybe life got too loud, or maybe I got too quiet. It was like I’d shut down that part of myself, the part that used to find so much meaning in a song, in a melody. It’s strange how you can drift away from something that once felt so essential, so integral to who you are.
And now, here I am, in this coffee shop, music playing in the background, and out of nowhere, I feel this surge of emotion. It’s like the music is pulling me back, back to those moments in my dorm room, back to the afternoons spent lying on my bed, headphones on, letting the world fade away. It’s bringing me back to a time when I was more vulnerable, more open to the things that mattered, that made me feel seen, understood, alive. It’s strange, but I feel like I’m reconnecting with that part of myself that I’d buried, the part that felt deeply, that found solace and strength in music.
And I guess that’s what this is all about, this break I’m taking. Maybe it’s a time to heal, to rediscover those pieces of myself that got lost along the way. Music was, and is, that for me—a way to tap into something deeper, something raw and real. It was my identity, my comfort, my truth. And sitting here, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes, I realize just how much I’ve missed it.
So yeah, I’m that person crying in public at a coffee shop. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s more than okay. Maybe it’s exactly what I need right now. To feel, to remember, to reconnect. To let music be what it always was—a way to find myself again.
11:21am August 16, 2024