Headphones

The sound of traffic bleeds through the walls of my apartment, and the footsteps of my neighbors yank my attention away from the idle cursor that mocks my feeble attempts at this composition. My attention decreases with every squeak of the front door’s hinge, and I sarcastically question why I have trouble finding motion to this memoir. In order for me to create anything artistic, I need to get out of this room, out of this building, and out of this city. I need to get lost. I need to find a place where I can be free to write.

I do know of such a place. I go there often; some days more than others, and sometimes for longer durations. I explore the terrains with grace, minding my surroundings. It is a struggle for me to describe because it is not physical. It exists entirely in imagination, and is constructed uniquely by every individual who visits. Everyone goes through a different process to arrive at this place, or frame of mind rather. Some meditate, others experiment with drugs, but I find the most effective way for me is by means of headphones. I can be there instantly, or I can travel through depths of what I imagine to be a neutral-purgatory, or I drift in as if I am water gradually soaking into a cloth.

Regardless of my transportation, here I am;somewhere that is neither dark nor bright, neither loud or quiet, or crowded, or solitary, but a place where I am free to simply exist. I breathe in the beauty, or the devilish domain that I create with the help of my aural accompaniment. And I am nourished, rejuvenated, hopeful and warm! But I am also pessimistic and weary. This place is a womb of contradiction where I find a wholesome comfort in its surprises.