Scattered light

Maybe You Could Know Me Too

When the sun found the moon
She was drinking tea in a garden
Under the green umbrella trees
In the middle of summer

When the moon found the sun
He looked like he was barely hanging on
But her eyes saved his life
In the middle of summer

- Panic! at the Disco

Chapter Text

Sometimes when I write a song the notes flow out of me like water pouring smoothly over the rocks at the top of a waterfall, cascading down the way nature designed it without rhyme or reason but knowing that the bottom of that fall is where it belongs. That's when it's the easiest.

Sometimes I have to force it, like squeezing the last few stubborn drops of water from a washcloth. I twist and turn, tugging at my chest until something, anything, comes out, as rough and bloody as it may be.

But then there are times like right now, when my hand can't move nearly fast enough while jotting down the sounds that build inside me and burst through like a supernova. It's uncontrollable. Uncontainable. Like a natural disaster tearing its way through whatever it can reach. The music is in charge and I am merely the vessel through which it achieves its goals. This is when it's the toughest.

Nothing else matters until all of the notes are expended, my thoughts completely focused while the melodies roll out like loaded words off the quicksilver tongue of a seasoned liar. Yet they aren't lies, they're so far from it. The things produced in times like this are the truest form of raw honesty that I've ever experienced. I can't lie to myself when my feelings are tearing their way out of me, making themselves heard.

When I finally got home from the trip, Daichi dropping a drowsy Hinata and I off in front of our apartment building, I wanted to sleep for the next decade. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but my mind and body were on two different wavelengths. My skull was pounding with inspiration that needed to come out, either calmly or by ripping me apart it didn't care.

Hinata retired to his apartment, barely coherent enough to wave goodbye and lock the door behind him, and I pretended to do the same. My bag hit the floor and I had a pencil in my hand before I knew what was happening.

And then I was writing.

I wrote everything. The train ride, the sunflowers, the hotel room, the ducks, the tree. Everything. I've never written a song with so much fluctuation in mood yet such an overall positive tone. It's odd but it's fitting. It's truthful.

As my hand flies across the paper, burning graphite trails of flame across the stark white pages, I think I finally understand the colors of Hinata's painting. The beauty in the swirls and shapes finally make sense and for the first time I see them too.

Is this why Suga always loved to watch as I wrote? Is this why my mother would buy me empty music sheets and have me hide them high up on the shelves in my room? But why did my father tear them down from their safe place and tear apart the foundation I had created, scattering it to the wind like the many pages sprawled across my bedroom carpet?

There are some things that have no answer, and some answers you never want to hear because even the mention of them will disintegrate the fragile hold you have on the life you built to escape.

Before I know it writing turns to thinking, thinking becomes remembering, remembering brings nothing but hurt, and the sun is rising.

The song sits finished on my desk, so far away from the spot I occupy on the carpet that I have no recollection of migrating to. My head pounds, sleep deprivation and writing taking its toll, and I figure this spot on the carpet wouldn't be too bad of a place to sleep.