Disappearing
Right as my university began shutting down its facilities and sending students home for Covid-19, I found myself the last one left in my off-campus house. I was set to drive home the next day – I just needed to stop procrastinating and finish packing. At the time, my room looked like an apocalyptic holdout. Situated on the top floor, its dark grey walls were still covered with colorful flags, meaningless diagrams, and dusty old paintings. My shelves hosted an assortment of weird items – beads, pins, lighters, bottle caps, toy soldiers, and books — things of remote sentimental value.
I remember this day particularly well – soft afternoon light was coming through my now-curtainless windows. It was early March and the warm weather had newly arrived. I was laying in bed with the door open so that I could feel the breeze. As I laid there trying to make sense of the past week, a faint sound of music crept into my room. The song sounded familiar yet I knew I had never heard it before. It was sonic, drifting, and orchestral. Stumbling over cardboard boxes, I followed my ears through the kitchen and onto the balcony. Blinded by the midday sun, I realized the music was coming from a few blocks away. The song, which is nearly seven minutes long, rang through the crisp spring air. I set up a half-broken camping chair and sat to listen. The sustained, hypnotic instrumentals washed over my body. During this time, the uncertainty of tomorrow felt small and inconsequential. Like many, I had no idea what Covid would entail, but hearing this song reverberate past abandoned houses and empty parking lots, I felt reassured.
Immediately afterward things went silent. There were no more songs. It was as though the person playing music knew I was listening. Life slowly resumed as the sounds of cars, birds, and pedestrians filtered back in. The moment had passed, leaving me calm and stationary. I stayed outside until the air grew cold and the sun dipped behind the nearby houses. That night I finished packing and promptly drove home the next morning.
Not surprisingly, this artist, War on Drugs would become the backing track to my quarantine period. Their drifting, atmospheric melodies epitomized the day-by-day senselessness I was experiencing. Presented by a total stranger, Disappearing helped me recognize an incredible quality of music – that when we get lost in a song we don’t escape into nothingness, rather, we take on an entirely new perspective.
I still don’t know who played this song but I like to think they were looking out for me.
