The Wall

Music is both medicine and a weapon. She used to call it the soundtrack to our life, and that makes sense because songs don’t just remind me of her — they reactivate entire emotional climates. A song can drag a whole year back into the room. A car ride. A summer night. A version of me before the world got mean. Sometimes that helps. Sometimes it gives me access to feelings I’ve buried too deep to reach any other way. Sometimes it’s the only thing that lets me cry instead of calcify. Other times it’s like volunteering for injury. But I still do it. I still turn it up. I still chase the exact songs that I know are going to mess me up, because somehow the pain feels closer to honesty than the numbness does. Music doesn’t fix anything. It just keeps me company in the wreckage.