I insert my life into my ears.

I listen to the flow of the vibrations around me, my mind transporting me to a better reality. A dream. I open my eyes.

I see the bright colors of an indescribable view. The undertones of green compliment the vibrant colors of red. The mountains layered together just nice enough to make it seem real. The world before me looks as if it was made by a frail hand with skills that could only be developed after a lifetime of hard work. I gaze in awe at the pattern before me, the painting before me.

I wander around, the sweet nectar in my ears accompanying my investigations of yet another wonderful escape. I reach the peak of the orchestra, my body at the highest tip it can reach. I feel the crashes of my very soul. It’s euphoric, it’s the essence of my existence. Then, all too soon, it fades away. The beautiful vastness of my imagination leaves me as the vibrations in my ears do. My blank eyes open, and I realize that for all my wandering, I’m still in the same lonely place.

My teacher looks at me unamused. She’s one of the very few people in the world who doesn’t enjoy the concoction of sound. I glare at her. Anyone who knows me would know I’m mad. To those that don’t, I look incredibly distraught. She’s holding the key to my soul in her right hand, twisting it in her fingers in an annoyed manner. She tilts her head before speaking.

“Need I remind you of the rules about earbuds in my class?”

She narrows her eyes at me, as if I’ve committed a grand crime worthy of a lifetime of jail. I find most teachers are like that, acting as if everything I do wrong is the end of the world. On most counts, it’s never anything bad, usually because I’m living my life in class. I find that they just don’t like me all that much. Honestly, I don’t even know what my teacher has against me.

“Need I repeat myself?”

My face relaxes, the mess of my mind pulling back far enough for me to concentrate for a few moments. For all that I can create, I have such a hard time expressing myself. It takes me some seconds to rack an answer. I open my mouth and utter quietly, “No ma’am.”

I wouldn’t say I’m shy, just someone who doesn’t know what to say. I can always think of something better later, when I have the time to collect my thoughts, but in the moment, I’m a mess. A big glob of flesh that barely understands her own existence. Sound makes me complete, the chords, the rhythms, that’s what makes me feel whole. My teacher shakes her head, as if my not wanting to learn about some world history event is the most devastating thing ever. She hands me my life back.

“If I see them again, they’re going straight to the office.”

I give her the most sincere nod, the type every student gives when they know they’re not going to follow instructions. Once she gets back to the front of the class, I insert my life into one ear. It’s rather hard to transport back to the same place when the sound begins in the middle. I guess that’s how it is though, you don’t get to pick where you start. Some people just have it easy, they get to listen to it all. They have all the advantages, but some people don’t, most people don’t. Most people start in the middle, or the end, they get to listen to all the difficult parts without hearing the soothing introductions. I feel sorry for those people. I’m one of those people.

Try as I might, the disorderly voice of my teacher keeps bringing me back to fake reality. I want real reality, my reality. I live eventful, purposeful, and fulfilling lives in sound. Such a short time, and I feel more full than I ever would in fake reality. I listen to the faint hums of the melody, how the chords change, turning it from romantic to dramatic. I adore the complexity and layers behind it all. Each note has a meaning, to the writer and to me. Each phrase means something, it connects to something real. Something tangible. I understand it all.

I hear the bell ring, a glaring noise that blends in with nothing. Though, I suppose that’s the point. I wait for someone else to stand up. Then I rise from my seat, take my bag, and walk out of the room without even taking the homework. I slump through the hall, trying my best to drown out the banging of the several others rushing beside me. As magical as my life is, not even it can drown out the noise of hundreds of angsty teens.

I realize the day is finally over.

I’d rather stay at school than be at home. They’re both glaringly loud, but home is a different type of loud. On most days, it feels more like a battleground than a home. So I like to avoid going home until I know everyone’s asleep. I’m not old enough to be out alone per se, but no one really cares since I look the age I act.

I walk for half a mile, barely paying attention to my surroundings as I tune into the voice of a particularly impressive person. She reaches the highest notes with what feels like little to no effort, and yet, you can still feel the internal struggle for her emotionally. Her strife, and her grief, her sounds speak of her life and I can hear it all too well. I love hearing people sound out their lives, their stories. It makes me feel a little less alone. I hum along to her impressive range.

I don’t even realize I’ve walked straight home. It’s kind of funny that way, I always end up back at the one place I don’t want to be. I stare at the door. I can hear them screaming. I close my eyes, turn my life up, and walk in.

I immediately try to rush into my room, but that never really works. My supposed mother stops me, pointing at me. She says a blob of nonsense, words spurting out of her mouth. I don’t need to hear her to know what she wants, some sort of confirmation that she’s in the right. I blink a few times, contemplating whether or not I want to do this today. I never do.

I turn away from her and walk toward my room, but before I can reach the sweet confines, my mother snatches my life from my ears.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you, you need to stop listening to so much damn music!”

My face scrunches up. Music, I hate that word. It takes everything life means to me and puts it into a pathetic name. Music is not what I listen to, it’s not. Music is something that has rules and regulations, the very things that are ruining my existence. Music can’t be defined. Music is just another label people put on something they don’t understand. Music is the very thing that people pretend they get until they realize they don’t. Music doesn’t even begin to define the grandness of it all. Music is not the glue of the universe, sound is. Music is not what I listen to, it’s not.

I listen to my life, my very being, because I need it to exist. Without sound I’d be dead. It helps me think, it helps me be calm. If I couldn’t hear, I’d be left with only my thoughts and my hopeless dreams. I would be totally alone, in the darkness of my silent voice. Music is an artform that inspires me to live. It gives color to my dreaded surroundings. My life is not music.

My mother hits me on the back of the head, over and over again. She’s mad I’m not responding, like I could care. She screams at me, it’s all intangible. Just because I’m not listening to anything doesn’t mean I can’t pretend she doesn’t exist. I wish she wasn’t my mother. I wish she would stop fighting with her stupid boyfriend long enough to love me just a fraction of how she loves him. I want things I can never have.

She throws my life onto the ground, hitting me across the face before going back to argue with that stranger of a man she wants me to call “Dad.” I glare at my life on the ground. I can hear the faint hum of it coming out. I stare, dead empty. I don’t like listening to music, because listening to music is something people in my life think is wrong. I listen to sound, I listen to the very essence of life. I listen to everything I want to hear and tune out everything I don’t.

I pick up my life and amp up my soul.