If i can walk into your life and somehow convince you to pay a little bit more attention to lyrics, my work is done.

You were always amused at how I hardly paid attention to song lyrics, but was (in your opinion) overly caught up in the groove of the music. You, on the other hand, inhaled and reveled in the complexities and depth of the lyrics, often drawing my attention to the stanzas which tugged at your heartstrings the most.

You’re such an English Literature student.

These differences obviously resulted in several friendly debates over our respective performance styles, and I vividly remember the times where you remarked that I sounded way too happy when delivering the most heart-wrenching of lyrics. Obviously peeved, I retorted by explaining that I did in fact feel pain / sadness when singing those words – and just because you couldn’t sense those emotions didn’t mean that they were absent.

Pride aside, I did in fact think about what you said later on. And I considered if I’d been focusing too much on how I sounded, instead of the feelings I wanted to convey. Perhaps I was turning into a mere singing robot, sans emotions.

~~~

After being kept in abeyance for months, I finally received your response – the contents of which falling squarely within my expectations.

While my heart had prepared herself for this outcome, it still didn’t stop her from breaking.

And so she found herself in front of the piano one evening, writing lines and lines of lyrics – things she wanted to tell you, how much she wished to be with you, and that she just wanted for you to be happy – with an accompanying tune which was at best, accessorial to her words.

This song is for, and about you.

And I know you’ve heard it.

~~~

Your work is more than done.

Because you walked into my life, not only convinced me to pay a little bit more attention to lyrics, but you also made me create lyrics of my own.

Lyrics that made you pay attention,

(and I believe)

Lyrics which, when sung, finally struck that melancholic chord in your heart.

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