Eerie Music to Ethereal Scenes

Perhaps one of the main reasons I call myself a Music Box Dancer is that the memories of this life are very much like seeing the world twirling around me. The feeling that I remember, the memories that I comprehend, are like being on a tilt-a-whirl or a merry-go-round going faster than anything I’ve ever experienced in reality. The whirl and rush without rhyme or reason. A crazy cacophony in the background screaming the words I couldn’t understand, music that hurt with awful dissonance of revelation and “journey begun”. I was a newborn in a crazy world with no time or inclination for innocents. And my soul, for all that it was in a new form, was far from innocent. I think the precedent part of my mind knew this and fought, desperately, with the innocence so that it would not later rip me apart. I also believe, now, that the precedent part of my mind lost that battle.

As if there came a hand upon my experiences in the Past and a voice that said, “Let her make her own choice.”

I wish I could bite that hand, silence that voice.

Those with more knowledge are often looked upon as gods. Because a doctor knows the human body, he is considered a supernatural being with the power to Cure anything. However, he is still just a man, with different knowledge and skills. That which has knowledge of things more complicated than another might then be seen as a god, and worshiped, however, more of a big brother. A guide. These guides I call Eternals, not gods; Ancestors sometimes, and ‘worshiped’ from the perspective of one that owes much to the knowledge that has come before.

One such Eternal I have pledged my soul to. He and I often talk of things that have come before, come now, and will come. One thing that he has said within my meditations is that, which he was not that hand or voice, that hand and voice did not do me a service. From me was ripped the knowledge of the past. Within me was kept the ability to see the signs of the past. Born as I was, nearly lifeless, I have always been close to the other side. As such, the knowledge of the past was taken from me, but not my ability to see within it.

The music plays, the dancer twirls madly. Splashes of colour and bright points of light, and at long last, the dancer slows. However, just as she does, the lid closes again, and only to be opened at the next, what most would call the first, memory…

The lid opens, and I view the world. What kind of world would it be if I was born inside a box?

Then again, wasn’t I born inside a box?

Not the standard of lateral thinking, but to the standard of where I was as I grew up as opposed to where I ended up when I became an adult. A music box dancer, twirling away to pretty music, with a scene of carnage all around me. That is how things ended up. Every time the box opened, it opened to a new scene.

The thing about music box dancers is that they do open the door themselves, ever. The door gets opened, and until then, what do they do? Do they stop or do they keep dancing. The music only goes when the door is open, but does that automatically mean that a dancer can’t dance when the music has stopped? Who has ever been under the door to see what happens?

Maybe the dancer doesn’t dance, but I’ll bet you she sings. I know she sings because I used to sing in those places between the dark of where I was and the light from when the door opened. The Door Opens and there I am. I am in that place between the lid opening and closing, and the last scene has gotten my dress all bloody and my throat sore from sobbing. The door opened and beyond was a scene of the things I could not change about my life and how it came about.

Once, a wise person told me that you cannot change the past so why let the past define the present?

Why, indeed.

There is, of course, a because to trump that why: Because we all see the world through the rose-tinted glasses of the way things used to be. Because everything we are and everything we could be starts with a basic foundation. That foundation is every scene that played beyond the door when it opened for me. It is the view out of the window of my fantasies. Because every turn of the musical key has led me down a road and now I am desperate to try and write down the music. The song I sing when the door is closed seems so desperately lonely now that I’m a big girl now.

What does all this mean in terms of where I’m going with this record of my thoughts? The music has begun to change every time the door opens. Something tragic happened to me, and now the door opens not upon the present but on the past. Now, all I see are the things that were, and so like the artist of a dancer, of a singer, of all the ways that I am not, a spinner of words, I’ll record these eerie scenes as the music plays, in my own way. In the way that makes sense to the soul seeing them. If a music box dancer could only see outside of her box, what would she think of the world that exists when the door opens?

I ponder that here.