This I Believe rough draft
I don't remember what we were fighting about or why my parents were yelling at me. I don't remember what I wore that day or how old I was or what song it was or even why I was so angry. I do recall only one thing: I remember storming off to the piano, inflamed, and proceeding to bang a song out on the keys. I remember crashing my fingers down into chord progressions, and my anger, amplified through the tune, pulsating like a stereo all through the house. The blaring music drowned out all the screaming and the fighting until I could hear nothing else but melody and harmony, dissonant chords and major arpeggios; all at fortissimo. I played until I forgot that I was fighting with my family or that I was even mad. I played until nothing else mattered but missed notes. I don't remember why I was so sad that day or what he told me that made me so upset or how I ended up feeling like my heart was made of lead on the walk home that afternoon. I do recall the name of that Bon Iver song, resonating through the headphones on my ears while I walked along the sidewalk on the way home from school. Rich, deep-toned vocals following those heart-breaking lyrics following that haunting melody, crooning the empathetic story of unrequited love. Listening to that song, I realized that the only way someone could write a song describing such feelings resembling my own was if the composer himself had also suffered some of their own broken hearts