Baskadia

The notes tell me something.

It conveys a message.

I often wonder what music is for. Void of any appreciation, I was left to wonder upon the subject.

I was never intertwined with the symphony.

The melody left nothing in me but an external stimuli to my hearing. Nothing more.

The singing were bothersome.

The voices which I preferred to be unheard propagates to my mind, annoying the inches between my soul.

It was nothing.

Dare I say beyond nothing.

But.

There is always a but.

It was never the music really.

It was never the purity of an orchestra. It was a smile.

A touch.

A gentle touch.

And ironically it was a voice.

Every word which is uttered.

Then music mattered.

The medium to which I convey my deepest longings and my fragile heart.

I never spoke of my flabbergasted eyes.

It was all in the beat.

The lyrics.

I was never a romantic.

Never a man of the soft sense.

Yet, a single thought of that soul, a single utter of that name, is enough to fill me with every melodic construction of the world.

Perhaps it was a mistake.

A sudden miscalculation.

But no.

It never was.

Never will be.

To me, she is the music which binds my whole world together.