The Window

“It needs… more.”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

“I actually can’t this time.”

“You say that every time.”

“I’m empty. My soul’s empty.”

“You say that every time.”

“I’m spent.”

“I haven’t heard that word in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s a good one. I haven’t used it in a while.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever used it in conversation before.” 

“You should try sometime.”

“Stop stalling.”

“I can’t do this!”

“Your music has got to come from somewhere.”

“Grief.”

“Not every time.”

“Well lately, yes.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve heard you write about other things.”

“Name some, then.”

“Nature, friends, family-“

“All grief!”

“Not true!”

“Well, I grieve them all.”

“So all of your music comes from a dark place.”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve written wonderful, cheerful music.”

“I don’t like those pieces.”

“But you wrote them.”

“Doesn’t mean I should’ve.”

“Not all art has to come from dark places. Many artists draw from content, bliss, happiness.”

“Well, not me.”

“It might be time for you to try.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Well this piece is happy. So try to feel what it feels.”

“You don’t know what this piece is.”

“Well I can tell you that from a listener’s perspective it is cheerful and excited.”

“Just because is sounds that way doesn't mean that’s how I write it!”

“The only thing you tell me about how you write is that it makes you depressed.”

“Well, it does.” 

“Maybe try writing it from the listener’s perspective.”

“But I am not the listener! I am the creator. I cannot listen to the music - it doesn’t work that way. I am the one that pulls it, stretches it, and morphs it into this. Whatever this is. You and everyone else hear the finished product. Sometimes I’ll let you hear the process. You wanted to hear the process, and this is what you get. This is what it looks like. I’m angry that I don’t know where it’s going, but I’m the one that has led it this far.”

“You’ve told me before that you don’t lead the music, it leads you.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Well try to be led. Maybe it will do you good.”

“It’s more of a drag.”

“So it is leading you!”

“I don’t know! Sometimes I think I’m in control, then other times I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Go on.”

“And sometimes I feel we are working together.”

“You and the music.”

“Correct.”

“But you say this piece is harder to write.”

“I couldn’t tell you if it’s any harder to write than my other ones.”

“But it’s more ‘cheerful sounding’ and your more ‘cheerful sounding’ works are harder because it doesn’t reflect what is going on underneath the surface. Not the surface of the music, but of your own internal dialogue.”

“You could say that.”

“All of your pieces reveal some sort of contrast. They always have peaks and valleys. Even if it’s a happy piece!”

“I guess so.”

“There is always sadness. Even a hint. There’s always a tiny glimpse of heartache.”

“I guess.”

“It’s always a glimpse of heartache. And you’ve suffered, I know. It’s warranted. But your life doesn’t always project a hint of sadness. I would even go so far as to say it never projects a hint of sadness. I think your brain lives in sadness. You wallow in grief. You accept pity and condolence from everyone, including your music. In your music you are allowed to create a companion to console you, telling you what you want to hear when you want hear it. You say it’s expression but I think it’s cowardice. You are afraid to let go of this darkness that you say surrounds you, chokes you, drowns you. I don’t believe this. You have grown to live in this constant state of safety and condolence. You say you’re dragged along by the music, but you’re the one holding the rope. Let your music reflect your reality. Let it. I don’t see a glimpse of sadness in your life. 

I see a flash of hope.”

“I don’t know how to write then.”

“Of course you do.”

“I just - I don’t know where to draw from then. If it is all coming from a lie I tell myself.”

“Then you must write what is true.”

“I thought I was.”

“But you weren’t. So now write what I have revealed to you to be true.”

“The flash of hope.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know it well enough.”

“Then get to know it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Write about it. If you live in grief, which I believe you do, then show me a window of hope through your music. But try, as best you can, to only show the hope - the light coming through the window. I don’t want to hear about the dark room, or the sealed latch on the windowsill. Don’t tell me about the walls crumbling, cracks in the wallpaper, or the water dripping through the ceiling. I know this place, this room. You have brought me here countless times.

I only want to see the light. Or the tree outside. Or the blue sky speckled with swallows. Show me the moss that lives under the tree, that climbs until it decides to stop. Or the rain that waters the moss and the tree or the branches that provide the swallows with protection from the rain. 

Show me this place instead.”

“I will try.”

“No. You must.”

“I must.”

“You often tell me that the reason you show the light and dark contrast in your pieces is because it is the truth.”

“Yes, and I believe that.”

“I believe it too. But, this is also the truth.”

“All of this light through the window.”

“Yes. Just because it doesn’t show you the whole scene doesn’t mean that what you see isn’t happening.”

“The dark room and the decaying walls still exist.”

“Yes, they do.”

“But so does the light in the window.”

“Exactly.”

“They exist equally and one cannot exist without the other.”

“Of course. They are parallel realities.”

“But I can live with both of these worlds simultaneously, drawing from each of them.”

“And you don’t have to portray both for both the exist.”

“Exactly.”

“So now you know what to write.”

“Yes, but first let me open a window.”