By Guillermo Cides
Neither coming from outer space, nor discovered in pyramids. Neither stuck to a million-year-old rock or recovered from an ancient ship. Music does not live indecipherably in Voynich’s book, nor is it hidden in monasteries with ancestral letters.
Music is us.
It is you and me, him and her, living through love and crying over loss. It is us singing together a sacred ritual, or shouting our anger in a rock voice. Music is our childhood that reappears in melodies, the shy smile when that chorus arrives. It is that silence that take us and that we do not understand after a song and that makes us look at the road with our eyes fixed there, where we are no longer.
Music is our memories and our futures. It is the dream of those who still have to live, dreams of hope built on pure D and F, held together with ligatures.
There is no music, it has always been us. Don’t you see it? Us and them. Desperate and at peace, loved and forgotten. Happy and to be happy. Music is those who are no longer with us, reborn in eighth notes, always accompanying us in a silent melody that reminds us of who we are and why.
G.C