unchained melody

reporting live and directly from a long time ago

I want to tell you about the girl who spends the night with the TV on. I want to tell you about how, for the longest time, I thought of her as a commercial break, a failed blood transfusion attacking what was ,,truly” mine. I know she’s real now and I am the kind of person who can’t help but show herself entirely because it feels untruthful to omit even the slightest detail.

Here goes nothing.

Initially, I dressed this piece in countless medical analogies because, while medicine isn’t the only thing I love best, it is the one thing I feel entirely comfortable loving. I don’t want to write sonnets about how deeply I feel for the world because I am certain there are many who do it more skillfully than a writer who fears picking up a pen does. The truth is, I love clumsily, with no way to express it accurately enough. I thought this time, I could at least try. I owe you that much.

I’ve been aware of the invisible wires connecting me to the collective organism of life for as long as I’ve known myself. I confused my body with bodies of others, bodies captured in old pictures of my relatives, dead musicians I keep in my liquor cabinet (nowhere near freaky enough, unfortunately, it’s just where my records are) and films that felt more like memories than results of somebody’s imagination and hard work. I think that’s why I went into healthcare and why I’ve always known that would be my path. I don’t feel the need to save humanity from doom, but I am synchronized with the sound of its heartbeat, irregular as it is.

The reason why I’m sharing this with you is because I enjoy your company. Simple as that. It’s worth noting that simplicity holds more physical weight for me than the entirety of my home library does and you know enough about me to estimate how heavy this perfectly ordinary statement might be in comparison. I could easily tell you about the time I was in a car crash (it happened twice) or how I kept my ill grandmother from throwing herself in front of a bus (my hands were paler than her upsettingly white blouse), but I don’t feel alright admitting Elvis Presley’s last concert always makes me weep so much the ache keeps me away from sleep. I mention that carelessly, like it means nothing, like it’s just one of my various quirks you’ll find interesting for a few months. Until you realize how those quirks aren’t quirks at all, but pillars of my very essence. Because it’s not just a concert and it’s not really about Elvis.

I feel alright sitting here with you. Silent, listening. I talk too much, but only because nobody else wants to do it first and I believe in sound and the hidden music behind everything. I don’t think anyone invents songs, I think they’re already there, waiting for the right time to be discovered, not too different from scientific facts. My biggest accomplishment and singular purpose have always been to let you know that the right time is now. There are various artificial victories to count and somebody else would do just that in my place. I guess I’ve never really liked playing the leading role that much, it’s just that it’s been my fate, wearing the gold star. I imagine that won’t drastically change, with the way things are and with the way I am. I don’t mind. I just want to be sure there will always be a place for me at ‘68 Comeback Special show, even if the concert never makes it past your living room. I wouldn’t really want it to anyway.

I haven’t written in almost a year and that’s still a more admirable frequency than my dedication to heartfelt confessions. I don’t think we could characterize this as such, but classification is never a perfectly reliable effort.

I don’t know whether you’re still here or you’re making tea until the TV is done with the tiresome interlude.

Either way, I’ll be coming home, wait for me.