Edited by Anusha Sharma
In a dusty studio trapped in an ancient past, guitar strings creak softly and a deep, breathy voice whispers immortal words. When the Earth meets a fiery end in a thousand years, someone will lean back in their spaceship and watch the end of everything with calm certainty. They will hum along.
The philosopher’s stone was an iPod. We have made music live forever. Songs cannot be forgotten now – only reproduced and transformed and rediscovered. But they do not belong to us anymore. We are but momentary guardians of infinite melody in a world where our songs will outlive us. And yet, they will die a stranger death; for you have buried feelings like secrets in the verse and when they play it at your funeral it will be the song, but it will not be your song, because there is no one left to hear it.
Are you listening?
Do you remember the first time you heard your favourite song? How old were you when the distant sunbeams were warm on your cheek and the windows were rolled down for the wind to rush in and the music to blare out? You yelled out all of the words that you knew and mumbled the words that you didn’t know and still not knowing you took a tiny sliver of yourself and hid it in the music. You would find it there many years later. Laugh like it’s the last time, and breathe in the faint scent of ocean spray. It will live on in the song.
When was the next time that mattered? Stagger softly in tempestuous darkness. Yield to bitter sorrows. Drink to nostalgic things and yell at problems you cannot fix. Die of thirst in the trenches of black sea and drown in burning white sand. Sway to the music – whisper the words like they’re yours because you’ve probably said them more times than the names of people who once mattered to you. Curl up in a ball and scream the last chorus until your voice is ragged and you don’t remember the words and you remember the sunshine. It will live on in the song.
After that, of course, you remember the date. Dance like you just met them. The ring is on your finger, and the people that matter the most to you are watching. But pretend like it’s the first time because it is the first of many, and dance with the person you will know forever. Neither of you is good at it, but you haven’t tripped over anything yet, and you’re smiling and you can’t stop smiling. Hold them close and dream of the little things. It will live on in the song.
Then, you listened to it that morning. Sit there, because you haven’t slept, and your head is hurting, and your clothes smell like a hospital bed. They bring you coffee and comforting words, but nothing seems to get through except for the song. Break, and grief strikes you through the heart. Weep until you cannot any longer, and they will hold you until you let go. It will live on in the song.
Then it was probably one of those long weekends. Stare ahead while you drive, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel. She’s only nine years old, sitting in the backseat of the car looking outside. The two of them are playing a game, counting the cars that flash by. Exhale softly, and feel a sense of calm rush over you. It will live on in the song.
The last time, you’ve almost forgotten. Nothing makes sense anymore – the world is a confusing blur and the faces you see are not ones that you can remember. You’re lying down and the people that talk to you look sad, like they’ve realised forever ends, and you do not know their name. As you lie there, someone sits down in front of you. Guitar strings creak softly and a deep, breathy voice whispers immortal words. For a single moment, remember every moment. Laugh like it’s the first time, and breathe in the faint scent of ocean spray. You hum along and the person singing pauses for a moment, eyes widening and smiling faintly.
Are you listening? Your song will outlast you. When they play it at your funeral, it will be the song, but it will not be your song, because it belongs to the people there. No one will remember the memories you have buried there, but they will remember you.
And you will live on in the song.