BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 05

WEDNESDAY
24 OCTOBER, 1996
DORIAN

               I shut my score notebook and slip it into my backpack. At this point, I might as well stop bringing it with me: I haven't written a single bar in weeks. Today was no exception to my new routine of sitting on the piano bench and staring out the window. Autumn seized Oxford in a single coup this year and leaves are torn from their boughs at a quick enough rate to hold my focus for an hour.

I'm about to leave the music room when my tutor, Richard, beckons me over. 'Dorian, could I chat with you for a bit?'

My palms go clammy from one hot flush and I regret putting my jacket on inside.

Richard smiles curtly though it does little to assuage the cretins in my stomach. 'How are you?' He watches me as he shuts the several cardboard files he was working on over the hour. 'Is everything alright?'

Subtext is as evident as a nail shot through one's foot, yet I can't identify what it is he's actually asking. 'Yeah, I'm good.'

He hums and without further sugarcoating, arrives at the destination. 'You seem to be lacking focus lately.'

Uncertain whether the pause is intended for me to respond or merely for effect, I nod.

'Frankly, I'm going to need to see more effort from you, Dorian. Just because you did well on the written assessments, doesn't mean you get to slack off for your creative ones. I understand that everyone has their off days, but you hardly have on days. This is Oxford. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now? If nothing else, you have to respect them enough to not waste your time here.'

I nod again and try to stack a defence for myself but the words crumble as if I was building them from sand.

He's right. What am I supposed to say, I'm too lonely and heartbroken for my creativity to flow right now? I leeched all the joy from my memories and all the melancholy from my misery at Julliard, and now, all I have left of inspiration is a shrivelled prune. Regardless of honesty, I doubt it would scrape me much sympathy. What excuse do I have?

'I'm sorry. I'll do better.'

'Okay.' Richard smiles, though doubt is still etched into the wrinkles around his eyes. 'I'll see you next week, then.'

I exit the building significantly more dejected than I entered. I could have sworn I already hit the bottom. Sighing, I return my headphones over my ears and change the cassette from my most recent one of desultory recordings to that of December 1990.

I find the part I'm looking for without a single error. The moment his voice streams into me, dread's anchor is torn from my pelvis and the current washes it far to sea. I'll get a few hours of peace.

'I'm recording this in secret so I gotta whisper. I wanna read you suttin. I wrote it on the coach this morning so don't expect no sonnet. It's just thoughts. Thoughts about you, obviously.' 

A faint smile on my face, I head to an Asda a few bus stops away. The shops nearest Oxford colleges are also noticeably more expensive and even if they weren't, the closest to comfort I get these days is listening to recordings of Isaiah as I sit on a bus.

This one is, for obvious reasons, my favourite. If I was told my room was on fire and I could save only one thing, I wouldn't choose any of my work, my recorder, or even the acoustic guitar I've lately been experimenting with, I would choose this tape. I listen to it before every exam and performance or when the library is too loud and the sound of my own breathing makes me want to cry. It's the only thing that relieves that noxious sense of homesickness that tries to drown me every few months.