I wish all of life was like music. It would make more sense to me
then. Every sentence
rhyming, there's a known melody, and setup of lyrics, chorus, lyrics, chorus. Plus, you know exactly
how the singer of that song feels. Slow, mellow melody: they're sad. Fast, high pitched, crusade of a
song: they're happy. It would all make so much more sense to me if things were this way. I guess that
could be why I love music so much. Why I'm always singing, or humming a tune, or letting the music in
my car play loud enough to give me a hearing problem some day. Music displayed my emotion for me,
felt for me, made sense out of things.
Most people just thought I drifted off into a daydream. Maybe I
did from time to time, but a lot
of time I was just singing in my head. One of my favorite things to do was to sit with my ear buds in, but
have no music playing from my iPod. Everyone just thought, "Hey, there's Jessa, just sitting listening to
her music, once again," and went on to tell their friend their darkest secrets. All along I could hear
everything! Not that I would ever do anything with this vast information, but it was still nice to feel a part of something and be trusted with so many secrets; even if no one knew they were entrusting them to me.
It also gave me inspiration for my drawings and doodles. My
latest and still in progress drawing
was a self portrait of sorts. Assisted by the tunes of In This Moment on repeat of the song "Blood".
And no, I'm not some kind of rock girl, I like all music, this is just the one I wanted to listen to right now,
the one I wanted to use to create myself on paper. Hearing the lyrics rise and letting the tempers flair
through my fingertips into my pastels and onto my paper.
When my drawing was done however I came to realize she had no
resemblance to me, besides
certain traits having the same albinism look. Her hair was a shade or two lighter than mine, giving off a
warm chestnut look. Whereas my actual hair looked more like the color of coffee, black, no sugar or
cream, but only when most of the cup was drank. Yes, it resembled the same color as that last bit of
coffee laying at the bottom of your cup staring up at you. The last sip that no one wanted, cold and
brown with little coffee grains sitting in the midst. It wove down my shoulder in a loose braid, with little
pieces always falling out and landing in my range of site, with the bottom of my braid landing at my hip
My drawings eyes were fierce blue, like a sapphire gem sparkling
as you turn it this way and
that in the sun. Looking in the mirror I saw the eyes that looked back, which did not resemble a gem,
but more of a pond of murky water, or the sky on a dim and dreary day. They were the kind of blue that
was almost a grey, but didn't quite make the grey club. And my drawing's skin was a perfect shade of
tan; really the only pastel I had that slightly matched my skin tone. While my reflection's skin shown
more olive color from lack of sunlight. But, really what was to be expected in the middle of winter in
At least I seemed to have gotten the lips and nose correct. Full
pouty lips colored slightly rosy
pink in my drawing and in my mirror, along with my tiny snub nose, which did not take up much room on my face, yet seemed to be the only thing that made my drawing resemble me in the least bit. The lyrics of my song on repeat seemed incorrect.
"Pump more into my veins, shut your dirty dirty mouth, I'm not that… dinner". Dinner?
I snapped to, pulling out my ear buds and realizing my lyrics was really my father, shouting from down the stairs.
"I hear you dad, I'm coming!"
I store away my pastel pencils and ….