Short Talk on Sound

There is no surface where water could fall and not become a soothing melody.

Most days I will lie awake on blue bed sheets, stare at the wall, while Enya plays on my iPad. Other days there will be jazz or rain soundscapes. I listen to Lemon Demon and Toby Fox in car rides and during classes, to drown out unwanted noise and focus on the schoolwork and the songs made with love and care, and the chaotic choruses.

Sound is my drug, my depressant, the only thing that relaxes my mind. It is my stimulant which I hum and tap my feet too, or sing along with when there are no lyrics. It’s an orchestra in the rain playing just for me. I lay under the warm covers of my mother’s bed and listen to her shower. I stargaze in a great forest while listening to the wood crackle in the firepit, and watch the dancing flickering orange wisps, burning softly in random rhythm under our mantle. When the flames simmer out, the air ventilation fills the stubborn silence.

Then there are the sounds that make the walls around my brain light on fire, that drown my thoughts away and clog my senses, making me shiver and shake with the need to fight or run away. Internally frantic when my grandmother eats, for she never minds how her lips clap together every second and create slimy noises that I wish I could scream to drown out. The clicking on keyboards and whispers of peers writing literacy assessments make my eyes water in stress and lack of focus. My father picks flesh and skin off his thumbs incessantly, a gaggly rhythm of a metronome. Always feeling the need to run away, the need to mute and turn the volume down to zero.