She Is Made Of Music ~

She slipped from under the warm pile of her bed sheets, for once she was reluctant to  wallow in her daily ritual of lazy and empty mornings. The wooden floor was cold under her feet, but she did not walk on her toes as was her ordinary girly habit. She marched steadily with a shadow of a smile almost touching her cheeks. She had a confident air that day, her eyes wore the color of morning and her skin wore the color of summer. Her brown hair embraced the breezy light as she stepped into her small balcony. It smelled of bitter coffee and old books. She remembered the night before, expectation kept her awake till the aurora light started to beam.

 Her eyes examined the street before her as if watching a surreal painting. The city seems tired and  drowsy, slowly ushered towards its daily demise. It will rise again, but the idea was not exciting. Every morning, it witnesses a battle of souls; the safety to remain in one’s shell,  or the risk of toiling to no avail. Routine, like a subtle monster, gently coaxing the moving bodies to settle in their cubicles to make money and produce a standardized brand of happiness.
  

Her young soul acquired the habit of reflecting upon these old-new miseries. She had an eye For the underlying pains of commonality. However, this time, her whole being was directed towards the promise of a sunny afternoon, of a new love, of holding hands without fear of letting go.

She was made of disappointments, but molded to dream again after every fall. She was familiar with the act of crumbling to the floor; it took stages and phases foreign to medical explanations. The naked eye only beholds weary muscles and bent figures. It is the labor of the spirit. Healing makes the spirit ancient.

 First, she becomes numb; she sits on her bed for hours, her head resting on her bent knees, her eyes staring at nothing .. then she suddenly closes in focus as if listening to a soothing lullaby stemming from earth .. she tries to word her pain into some fragmented lines on a rugged paper, but letters soon desert her .. It is not easy to capture a feeling, depiction is betrayal, her hand loosens the pen .. There is a peculiar symphony of sadness that only the miserable can hear, notes so furtively played at the back of her mind, she can see their harmony with her mind’s eye, she can feel  their relevance with her resigned pulse .. At last, she crawls into herself and listens to the symphony that cries her being .. She survived.