May 28, 2015

To My New Love.


You are a new language.

One created before me, existing after me, despite me.

I’m learning to translate that tone, inflection, this look, that look. What pressure of touch you like best. The meanings of your words. I want to hear their peculiar melody, see the particular colors that paint them.
Understand them as you do. But that is simply not possible. There is always something lost in translation. Something smeared, dulled, altered on that long winding trip from the thought to the expression. And so there are miscommunications, misperceptions, missteps.

We trip on these cracks. And work to reclaim our balance, back onto the road, the path leading to “us.”

And we will reach a crossroad. Where we can choose to be brave, to take the rougher road, to open those wounded, hidden parts of us. Only then, when we open those locked doors, can our melodies merge. This is the doorway. This is the only way in. For these are the dark sacred places where music was born.

This is where we will create a sound brand new, a new song, a new language. One that is timid and strong, hungry and sated, rising and crashing like waves. And it will vanish like ripples in the water if we part. For this, we, can never be translated.

Then, I will feel mute. My words paralyzed, strangled in my throat. Unable to form a sentence to anyone but you, to hear anyone’s voice but yours. And there will be no you, and no one to talk to.

But like a dream slowly disintegrating, consciousness will drip back in, drop by drop, and I will wake up. I will remember my language. The one created before you, existing after you, despite you. And I will start to hear again, speak again, love again.

But that is another chapter, yet to be read, unearthed. Now, we are slipping into the first few pages. The path is nearly out of ground. We’re almost there. And once we simply and bravely open the door, we will fall in, into the dream, into the waves, into the music of us.

~ your audience, your conductor, your instrument



Dear Right Person, Wrong Time.


Author: Jenny Spitzer

Editor: Travis May

Images: Deviant Art

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