The accordionist's night

by T. Brenna.


I woke up trembling, sweating cold. The sickness, whatever it is, has taken refuge in every living cell that my beaten body has to offer. Not much of a luxury stay if I may confess. I haven’t eaten a full meal since I left home, what is it, six weeks ago? Now I find myself in this constricted gap between two buildings, where I set camp for the night. My hands shake from hunger and the scent of my sick perspiration, plus the weeks gone unwashed, prickles my nose as I write. Oh gosh, it is lonely here. I am lonely and alone. I wish it wasn’t so. Wish I could keep denying how alone and miserable and isolated I feel. At least I had been deceiving myself pretty successfully until now.


...And this? This is not exactly how I thought it would be when I left. However, I still don’t regret leaving. High school is not for me. Not for me. No. This is me. This is my life. Mine is the traveler’s life, the rolling stone. Mine is the world and I am ready to tackle anything. As long as I have my accordion and my music I’ll be alive. I’ll be fine. I’ll be happy. Well, kind of. But if it wasn’t for my music I would be dead now. I know that.

I can’t believe how awkward I’ve become. This is one thing, if there is one thing, which I would like to work on for the next few months. Why do I distrust people so much? I wasn’t like this when I left. I feel old, and I am only 16. I was not like this when I left. I guess it is not totally my fault. People are mean, nasty even. I am glad I’ve seen people’s true face: inconsiderate, selfish, superficial, selfish, stupid, did I mention selfish? Now that I know them at their lowest, nothing can surprise me, they won’t let me down anymore. No expectations. People can go fuck themselves. I have me and my music and animals that are worth way more than any human I’ve met for all I know. I’ll keep writing and playing music till the day I die. Music is my nourishment. Though I could fucking use a good meal every once in a while. Maybe even a warm bed and a nice person to talk to. Not always though. I prefer my solitude, my travels, my freedom and detachment. Priceless. Guess you’ve got to give something up, and I am willing to pay this price. I really am. I am not like the others. I am independent, a free spirit, gifted, experienced and even a little enlightened when I compare myself to others. At least I hope I am. Don’t have much going for me otherwise. I don’t think. No schooling...my only schooling is the streets, the road. No profession. Well, I guess I am a musician, though not very many people appreciate that.

I wonder what I will leave behind when I pass, will anyone remember me? Will anyone care for my accordion? Or will it go to a yard sale and rust and dust away? I truly hope my accordion finds another owner who cares for it and who loves music as much as I do. Will anyone ever find this notebook? Will this ever be read?

God, I love the stars! My music and the pitch black starry skies I’ve been able to see are enough for me to keep me here, to keep me alive. It is amazing what this does to you, traveling alone, no money, no nothing. What a humbling experience this is. Hunger, cold, loneliness, sickness, but here I am: alive and looking at the most amazing night sky anyone has ever seen, playing my favorite tune in the backdrop of my thoughts. Here I am, together with the Universe. We are one. I surrender to it. I belong to the greater thing out there. Out there and in me. I am not but a representation of the force and I have no control of this which is my life. I just float along and it is wonderful. It is beautiful.

But why? Why did I choose this? Why me? Why this? And why isn’t there anyone here to keep me company? Why do I feel so miserable? Oh gosh, I wish people were more giving, and more considerate! So at least I wouldn’t have to scavenge for food in trash cans and then I wouldn’t get sick and all would be fine. I would be happy and would leave them alone except for a chat now and then. I think I have something to give...So why can’t they give back? Isn’t my music something they can appreciate and place some value to? Fuck, I need to stop bitching! Life is good. I will get better. I want to get better. I want to be a better person, too... So much. I don’t want to be a bitchy, whiny, bitter, run-down person that no one would want to be around. God, if I get better soon, I promise to be kind to others, to be fun and funny, to be honest and giving, and to be positive and open-minded. I promise. Please make me better. God, I want to live. I just want to live my life...And share my music, and learn and travel the world. Please make me better. Sickness please be over now. I don’t want to die. Not yet. I’ll lie here cold, sick, hungry and weak. I’ll lie here and think positive. I’ll just lie here and wait. Wait for that miracle.