XXVI

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If I were a song, I would be slow, soft piano ballad. Each note played delicately. Like rain, gently falling onto blades of grass. Minor chords played with the left hand, a sweet cry of a melody escaping from the right. The pedal pushed down again and again so each sound vibrated throughout the room. If I were a song, I would cry in balanced violin strings, vibrates echoing through eardrums, layering over the piano once it started to build up. If I were a song, I would have no lyrics. Just light breaths that come across as a melody written over the piano part. I feel that sadness cannot be written out, which is why so many of us spend our lives trying to fit it into words. I think the closest we can get is pure music. A grand piano in the dark, strings echoing in the background, a soft murmur of a human voice trying to turn a feeling into a mouth and tongue, all blanketed by the rhythm of rain on the rooftop. If I were a song, I would be the song of darkness; the song of sadness. I cannot be expressed in letters but rather keys, strings, pedals and vocal chords sanding each other down trying to find an explanation. You see, music is the fourth dimension; words box things in — with definition comes definite meaning and interpretation. A note on a treble clef breaks through all of that, it goes up and down and in and out and every direction and more; it's undefined. I am undefined. So rather than explain my life in words, I prefer to use the more realistic way. I am piano keys pounded at three am, broken guitar strings and minor chords; I am a death march on the saxophone; funeral music. My name is sadness, undefined — however that may translate from eye to ear.

-Nadia Haitham

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