Notes on melancholic music, 18.11.2025, 23:08
We talked about some lyrics,
and suddenly the songs from 2018 were back in the room with us. I felt my stomach tighten, my skin prickle, my throat go dry. Memories I thought were long gone rose up again, quiet but sharp. My heart beats twice, no, three or four times, per drop of sound, and I can almost see my soul simmering on the outside of my skin, dancing like a glittering spark.
Back in 10th grade, my literature teacher told me to write a poetry slam about the importance of music, and I thought this man had to be clinically insane. How could a beat make you feel anything?
Now I understand. And part of me wishes I had a time machine to go back, write that poem, show him I understood, make my dad proud, tell me mom I’m sorry for being ashamed of her. I wish I could hold my younger self for a moment, because things about them now makes my eyes water and my stomach turn.
These days I watch my plants die because I keep procrastinating on watering them. I do the same with myself. I wait too long, let the headaches come, and even then something in me leans into the dizziness, as if I’m trying to chase a feeling I can’t name anymore.
People keep saying it gets easier every day, but instead I find this strange hunger, a longing, a pull toward who I used to be. The version of me lying on the sofa, time stretching quietly, everything feeling simple in a way I can’t recreate. Back then I was softer, quicker to notice small things, less tangled in myself. I saw love in every small bird, in every green leaf. It’s hard to let go of that version. Hard to accept that the person I was on those days feels more real than the one who wakes up now.