She could never find the right words to express herself.

Large groups made it even harder. Piecing phrases together took effort and the chaos in her head made it difficult. She liked that chaos though. It wasn’t the frustrating sort. It was more like the walking down a cozy little passageway in a disorderly library kind of chaos. She would walk through it often, always conscious about the outside world, of her friends indulging in random chit chat- the kind she could never really contribute to, because she found it difficult to communicate. The passageway took her through books big and small, glossy and old. She would pick out a book and would immerse herself in it, always discovering something new, something interesting.

On some occasions though, this little corridor would guide her into a dark alley. She had no control here. She would be drawn into the depths of it and no amount of resisting helped. In the alley’s darkest fissure lay her own little prison. Little coloured wisps whirled about here, their richness now only a faint glow. Some of them floating in circles, desperately looking for structure- for foundation, others thrusting themselves at the door, in futile attempts to escape. She hated this place. Standing in the midst of it, she felt waves of claustrophobia and frustration gripping her. She felt helpless. Running far away from this mess always felt like the only option….

She could never find the right words to express herself.
And this is what it felt like.

“You won’t mess up, you love to sing”, she keeps assuring herself, but the words are unavailing. She hears her name being announced on stage and takes a deep breath. She proceeds on stage, aware of the hundreds of faces staring at her, judging her, waiting for her to perform. She holds onto the mic, all the while struggling to pull herself together. Shutting her eyes tight, she begins, shaky at first. The next minute is a blur to her, conscious only of the battle raging in that little dark alley of hers. Every passing second strengthens her love for music, strengthens her confidence, and with every moment, she gets closer to slaying her nerves. Until finally, she strikes at the heart and it shatters into a thousand pieces, destroying it forever. She feels closer to her music now, more than ever, as if in complete sync with it. Nothing else matters now. No amount of judgment, no amount of criticism from the crowd can hurt her. Everything feels easy. With these thoughts, it happens. The door to her prison is flung open, and the wisps of colour, now powerful and fierce, come gushing out. Angry reds introducing themselves to serene blues, striking violets singing with joyful yellows, temperate orange teasing the soothing greens, all of them dancing to the music she creates. She finds herself in a whirlwind of beauty. She finds herself experiencing euphoria.

But most importantly, she finds herself experiencing a new kind of freedom. The freedom to convey her most colourful thoughts, emotions, ideas, everything in a single song.

She could never find the right words to express herself.
But at this moment, it was okay.
She had her music.

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