what the water gave me - h.s.

meet me down by the river

Harry.

I'm currently in my apartment with Mitch working on my music.

The mid-afternoon sun casts light through the window of my balcony. Faint jazz music from the streets below provide background noise, and slight distraction, to the melodies I've been attempting to write.

My pen taps at the off-white pages of my brown leather journal, waiting for thoughts to form in my head and flow through my hands in ink, vividly expressing my emotions in metaphors and anecdotes.

We've been messing around for a few hours now, but have come up with nothing. Only mindless strumming patterns and jumbled lines guarded of real emotion, none of which excite us.  

Mitch is sat opposite of me on the cream colored chair, hunched over with his mind busy strumming guitar chords. Each strum played slowly brings together a delicate pattern, and I envy how comfortable he looks doing this. I'm not as talented on the instrument as he, but it comes so naturally to him; similarly, how singing and songwriting comes to me.

He starts to play a tune that just feels right. With my eyes closed as I'm sprawled out on my forest green couch, a hum involuntarily escapes my lips. My previously cluttered and lost mind now easily feeling the rhythm, lyrics glide off the top of my tongue like water off wax.

"She...
She lives in daydreams with me
She's the first one that I see
And I don't know why
I don't know who she is..."

I let my thoughts run free from the prison of my mind, speaking words I've never told anyone before. Finally conveying my opinion on the voice always occupying my head.

Mitch knows of the voice and I've explained it partially to him, but describing the feminine tone in poor words does no justice to hearing her, feeling her words in my head.

It's not just like listening to your favorite song, but more like if your favorite song swaddled you in a warm blanket, hugged you so tight you forget your surroundings, and made you feel like the only one that truly matters in the world.

Her voice makes me feel powerful.

"She
She's the first one that I see
She lives in daydreams with me
And I don't know why
I don't know where she is..."

"She... She" Mitch quickly adds on backing vocals, a smile I've never seen on him before plastered across his face.

The corners of my lips turn up a bit and I continue to ride the wave of this newfound creativity as Mitch switches up the chords.

"... Lives for the memory
A woman who's just in his head
And she sleeps in his bed
While he plays pretend
So pretend..."

"Pretend..." I finish off in a low whisper.

The confusing relationship with the voice in my head keeps me up at night, my brain unable to comprehend how this works.

Sometimes, when long periods of time go by between hearing her, I feel as though I might be making this all up, that the voice was never really there. But then I hear her croon an 80's classic in honeyed calling.

Her voice golden, in my copper braced mind

"H...That was..." Mitch says with a look of what I think can only be described as pride. Admiration takes up his features as his eyes never break from mine.

"I... I know," I say after a beat, a smile slowly creeping it's way onto my face this time.

"Where did that come from?" He asks, quickly checking his phone to see if the voice memo was still recording.