The human noise that rose from the streets was deafening. Every pair of shoes had a destination and every face had a name, but I stood invisible against a brick building. There was a notebook burning a hole in my backpack and a mind bursting with troubled thoughts, but my fingers couldn't find the will to write. I imagined the potential of each passerby as though they had all reached it to the fullest, and I began to question my purpose living among them. What was I compared to them? How obsolete had I become in these sweltering days?
A burning within my core ripped me in half as I pushed myself from the wall to walk off the pain. I secured my earbuds, turned a corner, and focused on keeping my eyes facing forward. Don't look back, I kept telling myself, don't look back.
Loathing for what I'd become continued to sear my insides, blistering like the summer heat and leaving me blackened and broken on two still working legs. Corking myself shut, I turned the volume up in my ears until I was again surrounded by my bubble of safety and seclusion. Muffled scenes from other people's lives unfolded around me and I looked on as a nameless passerby in the background of their stories. I was disconnected. Completely disconnected from all realities, including my own.
I fell into the safety of her embrace and let Music nurse my throbbing wounds. And at every other angle, life flowed on, unaware and unconcerned for another face in an endless sea of nobodies.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Records
Short Story"I've been injected with Music by the needle of a record player." ~Me To know my music is to know my soul. A simple collection of music and thoughts.
