She was never one to sing. In fact she rarely listened to music. Her thoughts were always elsewhere. Hidden up in the clouds in far off places where she defeated dragons and saved the world. With all the lives she had lived you would think she would have time to listen to the lyrics, but they never reached her ears.
You could see her, walking around town, earphones plugged into her ears, yet never was she listening.
With her carrot red hair let down to cover her ears she would allow everyone to think she was listening. That way there were less questions asked, less comments and socializing.
He was never one to sing either, although he did love music and the emotion it drove through his body. Beginning in his head, it would vibrate down to his toes. He could hear not only the lyrics and the words filled with lies but also the true meaning and the history. He felt the words and the voice. He knew not what they were speaking of, but what they meant.
He too would go in town by the beach listening to his songs, ignoring the judging looks and the awkward stares.
These two figures with their earplugs in would never meet each other. Their heads too wrapped around other things. Him, his music. Her, her stories.
She wrote furiously of frustrations so that for once in her life she may be heard. Lyrics, stories, diaries. All of it she wrote. With her head in her words she only once looked up at the boy in the wheelchair.
She looked up from her journal, saw his face, his misery much like hers and wrote for him. Because she knew that he was like her. Always wondering of the ‘what ifs’. What if he could walk? What if she could hear?
He never once looked at her, believing her to be normal with a perfect life. She could walk, and that is what filled him with envy towards her. He didn’t know of the secrets her hair covered. He did not know her, he only knew what she wanted everyone to think. That she was perfectly normal.
Behind her hair, hidden with the earphone was her hearing aid. An aid that most of the time was turned off. She therefor could never listen to music. She could never listen to the emotions and words, and that gave her all the reason to envy those who could. Even when the aid was turned on, she could barely hear the melody.
So she wrote to be heard, not because she didn’t want to speak but because she had gone her whole life hearing through paper and artificial aids, never had she needed her ears. So she wrote so that those with theses senses could realize how lucky they truly were. For they could hear the harmony that fell on deaf on her ears.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
