Fiction

When I was young, there was a certain sense of mystery when I imagined myself in a forest—something about the blissful, earthy, and woodsy aromas from the vast array of spruce. Growing up in southern Florida, you do not encounter many forests, and quite honestly, the heavy, humid air prevents people from journeying out far from civilization. So oft, I imagine myself surrounded beneath the sunshade of pine trees and evergreens up in the northwest, together with my thoughts and the chilly breeze. Along with a vivid imagination, I reminisce in many visual and chimeric ways. My younger years were full of processing every social and physical interaction I had and speculating future encounters. I would pace across my bedroom to comfort myself while deep in thought, not seeing my room anymore but completely transfixed in reverie. It's hard to explain how some of the most critical memories live in my head because, most of the time, they appear in weird yet nostalgic contexts, somehow making sense to me. If my mind were a library, these deep thoughts would be books readily available in some hieroglyphics that only I can grasp; all the while, the interpretation that everyone can understand is lost, tucked away within shelves on the fringes of the library. Not every part of my life is interpreted; unfortunately, some of my most critical moments are still untranslated. I would like to take the time to translate a multifaceted story containing three points of my life that tested my confidence. So, we shall begin to read and translate my imagination's rich, obscure language. I had driven to an expansive building surrounded by trees because of an intriguing message in the mail, placed neatly in an orange envelope, my favorite color. The note stated, "Your attendance is requested for an unforgettable musical experience," with an address listed below. The note piqued my interest, as it was written in vaguely recognizable cursive script. I had heard of this general area up on the northeast side of southwest Florida, a merism, placing you in relics of the Everglades. A few peers had told me about their experiences driving around this secluded area and how it has some of the most splendid music, but the source of the music was unknown. The building and the land, devoid of people, was called Memória, which reflected the sign I drove past in front of the building centering the expanse. My curious mind drew me out of the car as I panned through the colossal forest and Memória's vastness, but my eyes locked onto something that stifled my breath other than the cool, crisp January air. Huge doors were framed by a white concrete facade sprinkled with windows here and there. I'm not the biggest fan of large doors because I feel that something horrifying lies beyond them; however, that would not stop me from exploring Memória. You could say a strange feeling was upon me. Something pulled me to come inside. So, I entered. Silence pierced the modern, bare hallway walls as the gargantuan door closed behind me, creating a strange echoing sound brightly reflected by the polished oak floors grounding my feet. The corridor gave me a feeling of resemblance, so I trekked forward. There was a series of doors and windows spaced quite far apart, lining each side of the wall. I ambled towards the first door, which was just a frame. Peering inside, my anxiety rose. I slowly walked into a scene where my perspective was outside the van, and it was quickly apparent that kind-mannered adults were attempting to coax him into joining the rest of the group. With proficient intellectuals running the place and students who were considerate, bright, and thoughtful, it was a perfect place for him. Everyone wanted him to succeed, but the thought of socializing wouldn't allow it. Tried and true, he was not ready. This particular echo follows the familiar pattern of a lead into the meat of the story. I allude to my affinity for orange, forests, and cold while introducing the place where my thoughts have decided to take place. Memória is a Portuguese word simply for memory, bringing out my couple of years of trying to acquire the language. The language is quite demanding, pronunciation-wise, and grammatically complex. Hence, the double meaning of the building serves as commentary towards both the intimidating nature of Portuguese and how intimidating sometimes exploring yourself can be, finding unknown horrors hidden inside yourself. Doors are introduced into the story; these are portals to important moments. Not always do memories structure themselves in this manner; quite frankly, it seems aberrant: the destination matters. This first door takes me to a time when I was young, still in elementary school, with the Honda van. A group of homeschooling parents formed a group to compete in a problem-solving and team-building competition built on creative and critical thinking. They were excellent and competent; however, my mind got in the way, and social anxiety arose. When I was young, I had an egregious fear of interacting with people, no matter how nice they were; further, the source of this problem was that I could not understand people easily. I threw a horrible fit that day, and my confidence faltered. I left that frame and scene behind, shell-shocked, and approached the next one. When I walked through the door frame, I saw a large convention hall from the top of a balcony above, looking down into a sea of older teens. He was there, standing in the midst of them all. Someone over a loudspeaker said, "You have ten minutes to search for some teammates. We are going to an exercise, and the topic is Longevity," Knowing how he reacted to a dozen people or so prior, I wondered about the choices he would make in such a large and crowded space. He looked around, approaching people close to him and saying hi, but they either ignored him or didn't reciprocate the vibe. He sought some new friends everywhere but could not find any; but then, his eyes caught a glimpse of two people on the other side of the building. Instantly, something clicked. He darted to meet them, and a titanium friendship was born. When the exercise started, groups of up to ten had formed, but these three rocked the convention, and their project received some of the highest scores. Through this experience, the three of them filled a void they never knew was empty. But sadly, the convention was coming to a close. My heart broke for him as everyone exited the building while he held an expressionless visage, even though he would probably never see them again. Many would agree that humans are social creatures, innately so. My younger self-thought, however, that didn't apply to me. For most of my life, I've lived alone with my parents… no siblings, no friends, nor pets. It was a life I sincerely enjoyed, a conscious decision not to deal with the complex and hardly certain collective we call humanity. This dissonance towards society led to me excluding myself from some experiences kids typically obtain, such as sleepovers, parties, and social competence. Yet again, I didn't mind lacking in these experiences and areas. Quite frankly, I was ignorant of these positive supplements to my life. As I got older and matured a bit more, I found that getting to know people was a very pleasant experience. I was shy and reserved as a child; then, I was outgoing yet reserved in my preteens. The most challenging thing for me was finding meaning in nuance; I find it difficult to understand social cues and somewhat mysterious communication through intonation and body language. Nowadays, I am less anxious and have studied long enough to wrap my brain around understanding people a little more. I have even read social psychology books to understand how people interact. So, I've explored having longer-lasting relationships over the past couple of years. The internet has helped a lot with this; finding strangers around the world with similar interests and age ranges is quite novel compared to the timeline of society. I never thought that the kindness and grace of a few people in life could ameliorate and support me and my mood. My confidence grew. This convention in the story is the social event of life, starting at the point at which I began exploring online social spaces. There are many people I've attempted to connect with, but it takes time to find the right folks to stand by. After a while, I found some people to talk to, work with, and hang out with. When I wrote the story, I had two people who I connected with; now, that number has increased to five online and quite a few in person. The story's last sentence is poignant and highlights the nature of people online, whose digital presence allows someone to disappear and sever connections completely. This hasn't happened to me before, but it always stuck with me to bring back reality. With a warm feeling in my heart, I went to the third door frame. This time, there was actually a door within the frames. Slowly opening the door since I couldn't see inside, I peered in to see a regular-looking room, the first I had seen in the building. However, before I could explore and process what was before me, a thought came to my mind: he was missing from the space. Leaving that room because I couldn't find him, I traveled down other doors, four, five, and six, peeking into other thought-provoking phantasmagorias, but he was still nowhere to be found. Suddenly, I heard a voice. "Oh, I'm so nervous. I can't believe I'll be playing in front of them all… all of them." I recognized this familiar voice as his own, coming from the third door. So I hurried over and opened the third door. When I entered and started to search for him, I realized a music producer's dream was around me. There was much to see: keyboards, synths, and Sony system speakers dotted the small soundproofed room, with wires packed in the corners of the dim space, as well as a television at the front of the room and wires connected to amps and other audiophile devices. A software called Logic Pro X was loaded up on this TV, playing through audio files. But I didn't question how these things worked because my stomach turned as I heard him again. "I'm not sure if I can do this… what if I mess up? The embarrassment.." I heard him say. The room suddenly filled with three distinct sounds. An orchestral mantra with accented quick sounds falling and rising, giving more edgy vibes than I felt previously before. Secondly, I could hear the room where this was taking place, the AC, the sound of chattering people, the laughter of younglings, and the sound of a quick piano test. The final sound was simply the gasp that had occurred when I realized it all. He was at the piano recital. Suddenly, the sinfonietta intensified as I heard his teacher begin to welcome and announce the young pianists to the audience of family and friends. I felt like these fifteen minutes were playing out in Lento tempo. The music waned in intensity but became creepier, slow, and menacing. My breathing was rapid, my palms sweaty, but I kept my head up. Inside, I was failing, though, just like him. The other doors mentioned in the story allude to how this place isn't just for specific memories; there are endless memories and concepts to visit behind each door. The vast nature of how my imagination constructs memory creates infinite options for exploration. It's fun and daunting at the same time… in addition to the empty, cold forests surrounding the area. The door I walked into was a day I remember very well. I even heard the voices that loomed in my head. I had worked for months before the recital to play a classical piece and end it with a twist: improvisation. It was around the time that the torch of imagination moved through the caverns of my brain to illuminate my eyes instead of my ears. Creativity flowed through my veins to my fingers, and I suddenly felt the urge to compose and improvise after playing piano for four or five years. This recital marked the first time I publicly shared my improvisations and became the catalyst for me to share more in the future. This further relates to the production studio behind the door—a place I would love to be someday as a bedroom production artist. I have the software needed to produce music but lack the equipment and wherewithal to afford high-quality investments. It is my dream to own a studio. In that place, I would relive some of my greatest musical moments and make them, just like in the story. "Oh goodness, what am I going to do? …have to play, I must play. Right? Let me think." He pondered. The first young pianist finished playing. The music became jarring, almost chromatic. "Wait, what?! I thought the time was supposed to go slow when I felt like this. Oh no. Oh…" I was breathing heavily, and he was too. Everything about this put me in distress. He was plummeting. The orchestra's atonal crescendo and my emotions became too much to bear. I thought to leave and turned around, and the entrance was now the door that was ajar. All I had to do was push through. But, something told me just to breathe. So I inhaled. The orchestra stopped. All I could hear was the person before me finishing up their playing. The sound of humming AC and the attention of people. In synchrony, He and I exhaled–we were one. The TV, showing nothing but Logic Pro, suddenly opened up a video file attachment to accompany this project. I saw myself, lacking facial hair and stature, getting up and walking down the stairs in silence. With a wavering voice but a strong conscience, I announced to the crowd, "I would like to present to you two pieces, first, Toccata in D minor, and last, an improvisation composed by me." My teacher sat to the right of the bench with the piano, centered in the middle of the room, with auditorium-like seats that climbed up the walls. She smiled at me, assuring my racing mind as I sat down to play, to which my leg bouncing with emotions did not submit. I could hear the waves of the sea as I started to play what I had learned over those last few months. The piece was beautiful, and that boosted my confidence. After I finished, there was a short round of applause, and I began to play the improvisation, my leg less shaky, and my eyes tunnel-visioned on the keys. The music filled the room as the waves and A/C hum emptied. I could not feel the audience's attention anymore. It was just me and each finger gracing the keys. Everything was gone but me, the sound, the ivories, and the void — a picturesque moment. I finally felt confidence, genuine confidence. After all this time exploring, I saw my defining moment. As I finished my improvisation, roaring applause took hold of my ears. My heart filled with comfort and connection with others, yet looking around the studio, light holes began to appear. Memória's building was melting away. Excavations turned into gashes, streaks, shapes, and then caustic projections. The roar of claps turned into a cry of trees bustling. Everything was gone. I was sitting in the middle of a canopy of pine trees. I'm now at peace with where I am in this world. Perhaps it all was just a dream. My head frequently has these kinds of stories with wild circumstances, usually centered around some trait, in this case, confidence. I deeply reflect on how I've grown in criteria and have fun speculating what could occur through that same semi-fictional lens. This kind of reflection is what I refer to as translating, and it is how I try to communicate my experiences that are stored as odd imaginations. The story ends with the building of Memória disappearing into the land and putting to rest a stressful but gratifying moment that facilitated the confidence to publish my music. Furthermore, socializing didn't seem paralyzing, whether in-person or online, which started my exploration of finding other musicians worldwide. It was at this point that my confidence matured.