It’s more than just a beat, more than a thick layer of instrumental bass.
It’s memories. They’re arousing from the texture of the music while it flows into my ears. They’re filling my chest with butterflies, sending shivers down my back while my brain processes the words. Images flow before my eyes, reminding me of what I left behind. I can feel the music touching my soul, really going deep, sure to leave a scar.
Memories aren’t made from plans or things you intentionally remember.
They’re made from writing in my worn out journal, filled with memories of its own. They’re made from running through the rain at choir camp, getting soaked with your favorite person in the world. They’re made from getting yelled at for being a cover hog, the scent of morning breath punching your nostrils. They’re made from staring at people in Wal-Mart, letting our uncomfortable grins chase away scared to death strangers. They’re made from singing in a grown man’s ear while your best friend watches, laughing so hard her appearance looks as if someone is being happily strangled, grinning from ear to ear, turning neon purples and reds. They’re made from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, convincing someone of something believably untrue. They’re made from getting a new bracelet, to add to the collection creeping up my soft sun bleached arm. They’re made from repetitious remarks about every flaw that exists on one’s body. They’re made from getting sand in your toes at the park with a boy who used you then threw you to the side. They’re made from sitting in the same spot for hours laughing at a movie you’ve seen a million times. They’re made from hearing the sound of typing, knowing lots of love has come from this keyboard. They’re made from sneaking out and freezing in the cold with the boy I’m infatuated with. They’re made from talking on the phone for hours, creating a bottomless supply of inside jokes. They’re made from lying on my tummy, reading at the pool, smell of sunscreen filling my nose. They’re made from eating until I can’t button my pants. They’re made from lacing my drink with something rated R. They’re made from laughing until pee is running down my legs, repulsing the cause. They’re made from smells that bring you back to places like Meggy’s kitchen table, Mia’s bathroom after layer on layer on layer of hairspray was applied to our heads, my front porch after it just rained. They’re made from staying up late every night, writing poetic life stories on paper, turning it into something divine.
On some level of subconscious people remember what they want to remember.
To remember every stitch in my fabricated life would be a blessing. Unfortunately I don’t. Therefore I am not blessed.
To remember what I remember is life.
So thank you, wondrous beat that brought up old feelings. Your power astounds me.