𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐞. We all are. It's inevitable. It may seem dark, Her way of thinking at least. But on the brighter side, before we die, we must live. Her dad once told her, "The literal meaning of life is whatever you're doing that prevents you from killing yourself." It's a quote he had read by Albert Camus. He had told her this on her tenth birthday, as she sat behind a piano. "We live in a bad place, and you gotta' make it out of here, ya hear me?" he instructed. "You focus on making it out of here."
Sometimes, these dreams of hers feel forced on her.
But in moments like these, where she can sit on the rundown fire escape with her apple headphones blasting she realizes that even though these dreams were created for her, she doesn't always hate having to follow through with them.
It's 6:45 am, and Laney sits outside her window on the janky fire escaped adorned in her brother's high school hoodie and a pair of plaid night shorts. Her feet only being covered by the snugness of her Nike socks. New York was known as the city that never sleeps, but in Sugarhill, this early, the only sounds echoing through the streets were the closing of car doors as passerby's made their way to work. She liked being awake before everyone else, to experience the calm before the streets became hectic.
It was calming for her, sitting outside in the breeze, music flowing in her ears, where she could faintly hear the sound of birds chirping.
"Music is a spiritual thing, mariquita." Monet would hum from above her daughter, as she washed her hair. It was a weekly thing, Monet would lay her daughter on the counter, head slightly dangling into the sink as she massaged shampoo throughout her head. The melody from Lauryn Hill's "to zion." echoed through the kitchen from her mom's old school record player. "you can feel music."
Her mother was right, at least that would explain why Laney has been able to stick to the countless instruments her father throws at her. She is grateful that her father chose music for her to fall on rather than sports or something like that. Laney was freshly eight when her mother died, she can't really remember too much about her, but she remembers that her mother loved music and she loved words. It didn't matter what kind of music you put on, her mother Monet, found meaning in it all.
Laney agreed, music to her is an art form, a creative outlet that she could put out and possibly be the only one to understand it. She liked that, being able to say what she felt without having to say it even if no one else comprehended. Maybe that's why she started every day off the same.
Laney paused the movement of her pencil across the wide sketchbook, finally pulling her phone from the pocket of her hoodie, seeing the time, 9:47 am .
She pulled the headphones from her ear, allowing them to rest around her neck climbing back into her window before shutting and locking it and making her way into the kitchen.
