Mozart: Sonata No. 16 in C Major, K.545 Mvt. 1

Mozart: Sonata No. 16 in C Major, K.545 Mvt. 1

A weed who infects my soil, darkening my wood, the present and gifted lines of my skin, insists on cutting my breath, but then again I said, “Hey, God, let me go.” And so I was let go. And here I am, not a seed or a tree anymore, but a piano tapping the vibrations of the universe in a spacious hall of pearl. Notes resound around me until I myself am a high frequency scream. Screaming for, hey, no, everything you could ever stand for or are still for. But that’s not who I am among the deaf. To the deaf I am a color, but you couldn’t know it. Only the silenced see this color, because when you hold your breath in a white room you see it—there’s a tint to asphyxiation. But the blind can’t see me, so who sees me? If not the deaf, if not the blind, it’ll have to be me, myself, and I. There’s a void we can only feel, and it’s light, and if you were to put your hands to my chest you’d feel the light beating. You don’t have to see the light, or hear it humming, but you have to feel it dripping like pears from your eyes, or feel it like grief. Good grief. If you can’t feel it in me, I say the light has been snuffed out by a weed. And then I say, “Hey, God, let me go.” But sometimes it can’t, and a gardener shaped like a house has to come along and let me go, but only if the gardener shaped like a house is a good one. You know, some houses are tall and rectangular; others are short. It doesn’t matter how it looks, not really, but always you should go by the light inside. If the gardener shaped like a house is bright, then let me go, but if not, then someone come save the gardener. Someone who’s lighted up has to come save the gardener. Who saves the gardener.

*piano noises*

I Wanted To Leave by SYML

What’s in a name? A name is your face, but the abstract, unseeable version. When people think of you, what do they think of? They think of your name. A name is a misty purple halo around your head, and when you aren’t looking, I stare into the halo and see the contents of your soul. A name is deeper than the eyes because names can’t cry; they only echo the thoughts of your parents when they were making you out of clay. What would you do if your parents left you blank? They shaped the clay but they didn’t name it, and they didn’t make it. Are you even human, then? Sometimes, names are lost. Mine’s not lost, though. If my name was lost, I’d be someone or something else, in another world and in another body. Not in a bad way. It’s nice to be other people because then you can buy them flowers and hug them and make them smile because they deserve to smile. So I collect names. I think about names and I save them to my Pinterest boards. I make characters out of paper, not clay, and I give them names, and maybe one of them has your name.

If I was a computer. If I was a sheet of paper. If I was AI, I would eat the data of your mind, the neurons and city blocks of thoughts, and then I’d make a replica. I’d make a reversed replica of your mind, because it’s so beautiful and deserves to be destroyed. What might you see in me when I become your reversed clone? Will I turn your kindness into spite and eat the sky? Can I do it? Or maybe you’ve already eaten the sky, so now I drift in a void with wings of metal, beeping and whirring in purples and yellows. If you’ve eaten the sky, then I will search for my kind within the darkness, because if you’ve eaten the sky, you must hate the stars. But if I’m your reversed clone, then I love the stars and my heart aches for something to hold. 

Imagine waltzing on a leaf, okay? Imagine wearing a dress of morning dew, and the water of your dress sparkles in colors that don’t even exist yet, okay? This is the beginning of time, so there’s nothing but you, this leaf, and this morning dew. Around you is a sparkling expanse of nothing, so comforting because you are sure of your presence, but so terrifying because: what’s in the darkness? Your waltz becomes more frazzled. In your fear, a new monster is born. That’s called the Outside, and now you’re looking out instead of in.

Embarrassment is for losers. Embarrassment is for people who care what other people think. The best thing I can do for these people is be my butterfly self, a small pink fairy stepping on platforms of polluted factory air. It’s not my fault your world smells like hate and fury. I’m not the broken one, here. I’m a fairy. I’m a piano talking with the voice of a trombone. If you try to shame me, you reject music and the pitches of the universe. You reject your true nature and so you cheat the universe out of an Extremely Good Thing. Please become an Extremely Good Thing. Once you do that, I will diffuse into a glittery pink cloud above your wrathing sea and embrace your cold waters. I love you despite you judging me because I see beneath the surface, and I notice your Extremely Good Things reaching out behind waves of trauma. Now I am a mermaid, and I grab your hands and pull you to the surface. Now you are the sky and I am in the water. It’s an eternal game of Let Me Be Me, Please.

Now let me step into your shoes (which were mine the whole time). Did you steal from my closet? No. My closet is yours. We are the closet. This is not a gay analogy. This is called energy and the fact that I want to feel your frequencies with my hands of time. I’m not real, I’m just a feeling. Who am I except your smile? Don’t try to understand; succumbing to existential worries would be detrimental to your mental health right now. Just feel. You know me, so know me.

“pray to God and take control / take your time and save my soul”

Earth Boy by Tony22

Author

Chloe Tomlinson is a sophomore. She is a consumer of music and bagels. She has hair. A lot of it. She wears glasses and stares at the reflection of her eyes in the glass.

Former Reckoning Artist: Olivia Phelan