One hug for all the stories about music
In October last year something unusual happened to me. I was far away from home, trying to find myself, in life and in writing. One boy, that I’m especially fond of, sent me several stories about music. Those were actually stories about the essence of everything, just hidden behind the songs – but that doesn’t matter right now.
I enjoyed them and that was it. I’ve never asked for them on my own, nor I nor have I inquired about the details. Not until one of them broke me, in thousands of tiny pieces.
I was sitting in my office, nervous about my trip on another continent, where I was about to go tomorrow, alone, on the first business trip. All situations in which I could somehow mess up were running through my head – from losing documentation on airports, to need to prove myself in front of partners and clients.
My company was in one peaceful area, far from city center. Houses of rich doctors, nursing home and two schools. On the sreets you can meet only old people and kids. Suddenly, circular mail arrives that we are advised not to leave the building during the lunch break. Someone is just robbing the bank.
I start nervously pacing up and down, unable to concentrate on anything more. What am I doing? Where am I rushing? Will I be able to accomplish everything that I imagined or some fool like this will wait for me somewhere and, for a pure prank, tear down all my plans?
At that moment I get the story from my favorite boy. I can’t tell it to you like I read it, it was about the author that constantly meets the same guy at the pool. Although guy can’t walk without stick, he gave him a hand when he slipped and fell on slippery tiles. Then the author walks the empty streets of Belgrade at night, listens Cave and thinks about the people and the meaning of life. And I start to cry.
I cry because banks are being robbed.
I cry due to fear.
I cry, desperately wanting to walk the empty streets of Belgrade at night.
I cry because Cave knows how to make a song like that.
I cry because I miss everyone.
I cry, in view of everything being much harder for all of us than I imagined it should be.
I cry because I find wonderful that man helped him at the pool.
World hurts me, that was the thing.
Story broke me, and that’s great, because I was clearly not at my best as whole.
Anyway, no one was injured in the crowd at the bank. My first business trip was a great adventure and ended up being very successful. I went back home. And something else has changed. From that day on, I have not missed a single story written by that author.
He doesn’t even know how many of them he wrote about me, about people and places familiar to me. To be honest, he didn’t entitled them quite like that, but I know that they were about us. He revealed new groups and albums for me and made me playlists for the first snow, for a rainy day, for reading, for the beach, for life.
Each line and each verse thrilled me and I sincerely admire his perseverance and time he invested to save the world he made for himself and us. He maybe doesn’t know how to publish that first book, but I know that I cannot wait to read it.
I told to my dearest boy that I will hug the man who wrote it all, as soon as I meet him. Somehow we already know and understand each other, so I guess that’s okay. He considered that as very cute thing to say. And when the situation was convenient, he tried to cheer up the author of these stories by telling him what I said.
Since then, certainly half a year passed. I had many opportunities to meet the author. I didn’t want to. I was kind of anxious about it. He has no idea that I he broke me and how much he taught me… but I do. And the fact that he knows that I want to hug him, is infinitely funny and just increases my jitters.
The first day of July was suitable date for doing something important. Once again, I let the nervousness get under my skin. Once again, I don’t know what to do with my life. I question everything and that hurts. Countless questions are after me, tripping me up, like on slippery tiles around the pool edge.
My favorite boy and I went out on that night, to hear all those songs live. Like, I’m ready now for this encounter. He presents me to the mister and I politely try to shake his hand. On the other side I find a hug. That imaginary hug from half a year ago, from a person that I see for the first time in my life.
That hug means that he still gets it all. This somehow means that everything will be all right, I don’t know how to explain it. It means that we change each other’s lives, even when we have no idea about it. We don’t have always to talk much, we do not need to criticize and forcibly change one another.
It is enough to slip, secretly, a little bit of inspiration in someone’s pocket.
It is enough to hug those who recognize us.
It is enough to honestly tell our story.
And not only enough – that is only necessary thing to do…
That is the only way to write all that beautiful music.
This is the only way to live all those beautiful lives.