“And like I said, this is me translating on the fly. Clearly it means more in Spanish, and it actually rhymes, so try to keep in mind that it sounds much better.” He squinted at the lyrics on his phone, the right of his mouth pulled sideways in focus, fumbling for the right words. “You look cute when you concentrate,” I offered wryly, testing the waters. His gaze didn’t falter as he let out a slightly annoyed, “Pshh… whatever.” I snickered at the response. Maybe he didn’t like being told he was cute, but I didn’t care. He centered his position on the floor, clearing his throat, before flowing into the lyrics.
It was a very sad song, spoken like I had never heard. I collected that, as confident and resilient as he seemed, he had been done wrong many times in the past. He spoke the words without faltering, reiterating that the past was where he decided to leave it, while still visiting the memory within his art. That’s when it occurred to me that we were not so different. He’s compelled by heartbreak. He chooses to call out the flaws as he sees them, yet continues to rise above. I choose to shine a magnifying glass on the wrongs of society. I choose to be a bleeding heart, yet wear it as my badge of courage. It was truly as he told me, although at first I didn’t believe it. Almas diferentes, almas gemelas*.
“And obviously, you’re not going to know what I’m saying,” he tossed his hands around, glancing up, “But maybe you can see a little bit how it flows musically and the inflections and rhymes. Maybe the emotion that comes out of it with the words.”
I couldn’t get over how overly apologetic he was, as in I want to share with you something so deep and important to me although I know it won’t mean the same. As a writer, I could understand. I’ve offered up a piece of my soul onto a page to hear “it’s good” or “that’s great” and rarely felt like doing so again. I could only imagine having to morph your words so that someone else could understand, stripping the meaning, and trying to convey in your native tongue what you know they can never fully appreciate. He didn’t know how much I did. He didn’t know how much those words echoed in my mind as I laid strung upon the couch in silence, reflecting. I could feel the betrayal within each line as if it was a blade across my chest.
After several songs he offered, “I don’t want to bore you.” I didn’t know where to begin. I was used to playing guitar with a handwritten song for a lover. I’ve orchestrated my fair share of poems to burn. I’ve never been on the receiving end, bearing witness to the artistry dug up from the deepest chasms of one’s soul. There are no words. If I had the right ones, they wouldn’t fit. I just stared up at the speckles on the ceiling, soaking it all in, breathing steadily as if I would never have such a pure moment again for the rest of my life.
*English: Different souls, twin souls
Photo Credit: Juan Di Nella