Music is my Real Talk

Alright let's talk
Let's talk real

Real talk: I wish I had more time
Real talk: I  hate it when people say , "don't worry about it."
Real talk: I didn't want to turn 18
Real talk: I think that most teachers don't have souls... Ironic...

Real talk: I'm losing my hearing

Real talk: these little white buds are going to make me go deaf

I think I speak for most teenagers out there, when I say that my headphones and my ears are a like those couples that hate each other, but can't break up.

I don't need my ears

I can hear through my calluses, and be with people through theirs.
And I would never consider myself a musician.

I walk the halls with my guitar strapped to my back not because I'm trying to show off, but because it's shield. But because half way through the day, when I'm not sure if I'm still alive, I can utter the broken emotions of others to guide me back into my own eyes.


Real talk
Real talk

Real talk: My depression used to be a pit, a shovel and the devil.  It used to be a scoop of dirt a day; ice cold fingertips clawing at lose ground as I reached for handfuls of empty desperation.

Being buried used to scare me. But when the next scoop made no difference to my already covered eyes, only then did I know how to fear.

Its cliché but the empty blackness, the void... Is worse.

Real talk: I've seen both, but I'd rather know what I'm feeling then be anxiously horrified by what I'm not.

I don't need my hearing.

Because just maybe if I turn the music up loud enough I won't be able to hear myself mourn.

Maybe, for just a split second, the angry beating of the drums can become the angry beating of my heart.  And when the violins slip their way into the chords, I can't help but be reminded of the sound my tears make when they glide from my eyelids.

Notes are pleas- frets are prayers -  and those little arrows that signify the strum pattern, those are my final words.

"Let me feel something."

I'm losing my hearing, yes. But  I'd be glad to lose my ears  If it meant that I wasn't losing my heart.

Cousin

I remember being seven- I remember staying up waaay past our bedtimes and having only the night sky and our bare feet to guide us back to our homes. I remember running for hours playing-quite frankly- stupid games, but loving every second of it. I remember our feet being so light that we might as well have been floating over the grass because we were freer than most. I remember being free.

I remember Sunday, summer nights. I remember the playful warfare between us and the older cousins. I remember every game being another chance to try to scare the living daylight out of our siblings, and oh how we loved that.

 I remember being carefree. I remember thinking, “I wonder, if I can push this sleepover weekend three days.”I remember calling you every weekend, your mom giving me the same excuse every time. You were both so annoyed.

I remember the “deep” conversations we would have about our simple crushes or what we really thought about [insert cousins name here].

 I remember growing up.

I remember telling ghost stories, not realizing that we would one day be the dead-eyed ghosts that would haunt our childhood vibrancy.

I remember the days our two older cousins left on missions and you and I left tears in our eyes.

I remember feeling robbed.

I remember wishing for those Sunday nights back, so I could watch the sun rise and set simultaneously one last time.

But I couldn’t.

All I could do, was remember.