On Souls and Sol

venus.

Music is a wonderful thing.

Music is expression. A man can only say so much, but the rhythm and the poetry and the energy behind every word can express more than any amount of text. He could never sing, at least not well, but he used to serenade Her whenever he could and they would laugh and laugh and understand. Because we understand music better than words.

Music is fuel. It motivates, it releases energy we store within ourselves and our souls that we didn't think we had held back. He used to pop in his headphones on his way to work to speed up his journey, and they used to sing to each other while hiking to keep each other going.

Music is distraction. It is so full of meaning and expression that it fills up our mind and all we can contemplate is the music and the moment. It's the most powerful amnesiac. He used it to hold back memories after the loss of his dog, and his mother. He never listened to music when She followed them, because he didn't want to forget. And so he never forgot.

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"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."

-Victor Hugo
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He was late for work that day.

He planned to stay in bed for an extra five minutes. Five turned to ten turned to fifteen turned to sixty and before he knew it he was already late. He washed his face, put on his clothes and was off on his way. The rain still hadn't stopped, but it had indeed picked up its pace to match his. It rained down much more ferociously than it had done an hour ago, with a sense of manic at every splash. This is what he was familiar with. The gentle tapping had become the deranged and unharmonious heartbeat of some frantic beast.

Work was just a few blocks down the road, a quick jog and he was at the door. Today he didn't jog, out of fear of falling on the wet pavement but also because he was already late and he didn't see much difference between being late by 20 minutes and being late by 30 minutes. Life had been a big rush recently, and he never took the time to enjoy a walk. When you rush, you see silhouettes. Buildings and parks and cars and stalls. He knew of the record shop two doors down, there was a cornerstore about 2/3rds of the way to work, a playground just a few minutes further. But he never noticed the broken swingset, the rows of roses outside the cornerstore or the girl behind the counter of the record store. The girl behind the counter of the record store.

The record store was one of the main reasons he ended up staying where he did. He loved music, so did She. He had an affinity for records, and he attributed this to the "absolutely unreal sound quality" but She could see it was just a show of elitism. Either way, he hadn't bought a new record in years. Bublé. He loved Bublé. They loved Bublé. The nights they would sway to Sway and laugh and sing and dance and drink and talk and. Stop. There is no joy in recalling happiness when you don't feel it any longer.

He made it to work, greeted warmly by a receptionist who still didn't quite know his name. His boss came and asked where he had been. Personal emergency. As if he was going to admit that he had spent an extra hour in bed crying in time with the rain. The rain that was still pattering on the tin roof of their building. He could hear it, always in the background. As he sat down behind his desk and escaped to his second life, a life of documents and drama. Writing was his career, taking reality and making it ready for consumption by eager readers looking forward to their daily scoop of manufactured romance and weight loss tips. He took no joy in writing about the most menial parts of the lives of influential people, as if all that was wrong in the world was the dress Kirsten Dunst wore to the MET Gala. Perhaps once he desired to produce his own reality and write out his imagination, but now there was not much imagination left to be transformed into words. This work might seem mundane but it allowed him to do something with his days, at least moreso than sulking at home waiting for an idea for a story to strike.

On the walk home, now that the sky had cleared up, he decided to treat himself by popping into the record shop. His eyes drifted from Rock to Metal to Pop to the girl behind the counter to the classics and then back to the Pop. There he was, Bublé. There she was, the girl. He wondered what music she liked. Perhaps she liked Bublé too. Everyone likes Bublé.

Classical was right next to Jazz, so he went and gave that a browse. He liked Jazz. There really wasn't much better than a smooth sax riff. Genre by genre, he noticed himself drifting towards the counter. He must have been in there for at least half an hour, so he thought he ought to at least pick up something before leaving.

He picked up a record he knew he used to listen to all the time, but the one at home skipped during choruses. He picked it up and headed casually to the counter, once again avoiding any rush and taking in all the details he could see.

There was half as many records in the Jazz section than there was in Classical, the counter top had a chipped corner, her hair was a shade of brown that seemed to glow under the lights above her, there was a jar of free guitar picks but no guitars in sight. The slower he walked the more he took in. There was an odd red tinge to the tubelighting, the Vinyls on the wall were more navy than black, there were streaks of light brown littering her eyes.

He was there, in front of her. She sneaked out a greeting, soaked in genuine disinterest. He replied with a grunt of acknowledgement, and passed over his record to be priced and packed. She looked over the record to find the barcode for scanning, stopping to smile and quickly letting out a "Ooh, I love Bublé."

As he walked home, he looked forward to listening to a fresh record for the first time in a long time. There was no rain, and no reason not to rush, but he continued to walk home at a casual pace. His heart had loosened, just the slightest bit. He felt lighter than he ever had. But despite this, his steps felt heavier than usual, as if someone had dialled gravity up to 11.