She often missed the sepia-toned days of having a cassette player. There’d been something soothing about listening to a rewinding tape, with the occasional crackle after she’d pressed play with a stubby finger, releasing rhythmic waves of catharsis.
There’d been magic to music then and there was still nothing that could compare, in the way it always knew how to find her through a thrashing deluge or guide her back from a precarious plateau.
It was her only therapy, because it nursed the wounds festering within the secret kerfs of her bones. Because it understood how to deftly untangle her emotions from the burs and knots that often made her lungs snag on a breath.
It gave warmth to her most frigid places and took her mind on a frolic along its glittering staves. And there were moments too, when the music took her hands and led her into a giddy jig down the street. Its phantom lead like the pied piper, with her following after each beat; her giggles drawing curious eyes regarding her with open disapproval. But she didn’t care. All she wanted was to follow the grooving silhouette of quavers and musical notes into the halcyon haven, where there was no pain. Only sweet release.
***
Nomad Writer 
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