Nefrit El-Or
There was a time, at the end of last years’ summer, when the air was beginning to thin and August’s oppressive heat was finally segueing slowly into Fall, that I knew my body was collapsing from the effects of starvation.
Yet, I wasn’t able to stop.
It was just me and the vultures Anorexia in a very intimate affair, always hanging alone at the Upside Down. They weren’t very good company.
But I was unable to confess to anyone of the true reasons underlying my weight loss. It was a dreadfully solitary existence.
My family, I felt, lived in color right beside me, while my world was a gray world, color blind, tone-deaf, dumb, voiceless.
So I resorted to composing again. The first tune was to be a confession, my mea culpa if you will, an apologia masked as an apology to Anwen, for my leaving her.
But songs have a mind of their own. And as I sat at the piano, as my fingers hovered over the blacks and the whites, Anwen began singing to me instead. She sang to me of the regrets, the vast void, recounting to me the life I would leave behind, the memories of my face slowly fading away as she grows-up in my absence.
It was a song turning eulogy of sorts.
I named it Echoes.