𝐇𝐞𝐲, 𝐇𝐢𝐯𝐞
Vertigo
I grew up in a remote town that belongs to oblivion, surrounded by dry trees, grayish houses and pale lines on the road, shadows of what was once a popular area. Having a dysfunctional family started to become common during my childhood, working life was so important to my three siblings that I don't even have a memory together to be proud of, each of them abandoned me before I was 18, I was left behind with an alcoholic mother and a short-lived father.
It's funny to think that now many fans want to touch me at least one finger, and my mother couldn't even be in the same room with me, I looked so much like my father it made him gag. I didn't have a sweet 16 party, my sour celebration was to take a stolen guitar from high school and take off to New York.
The city of dreams, the center of determination, where the most important of the elite have lived. A place awake, flaming; the first night I felt like the lights were swallowing me up, the second night, there was only depression.
My dream was so big that I had no room in my body.
Every night, through the small window of the hovel I rented I saw the bulbs of the buildings and fantasized that it was my audience, a sea of people waiting to hear my voice, and I sang there, with my hair unwashed, my lips cracked from the cold and an almost unbearable hunger, I sang, all because I wanted to express my inner pain with the most listened art in history, music.
The loud noise of the microphone takes me out of the memories, I sigh, during some concerts there is usually that effect: the one of traveling to the past. I dedicate a smile to the audience because my steps towards the center of the stage are the evidence of how hard I work not to return to poverty.
The lights dim, and the emcees begin to enliven the event. I reach for my guitar, the only link I have left from my youth; my old Martin D-28 has been with me since those years when Janis Joplin was the only thing I wanted to hear on the radio, so badly damaged by the passage of time that sometimes my record label doesn't want me to use it. But that's life, it keeps hurting until it breaks you.
I feel the effect of the anxiolytic and place the bottle with water on the floor, I see the lights in the distance and the audience tries not to scream madly, I breathe slowly, this is no longer for my dream, it's to keep me in the dream. I mentally count down 20 seconds and when I play the first chords of my most popular song, I become detached from what is around me.
There are only lights, no more audience.
The song they cheer so much, is the one I hate the most. I wrote it when I was 17 and starting my freshman year of college; when I was feeling less than nothing and sitting behind the basketball bleachers after practice practicing guitar.
My fingers move with total ease over the chords, I can play this song even if I go deaf, it's my first single and the loudest hate statement of my life.
The record labels I presented the song to at the time did not support the subject matter of the lyrics, they did not trust that it was a song that would be liked and even less if it was sung by a teenage girl. I composed lyrics full of sadness, impotence and anger towards my past, my family, my people, my life. Knowing about the possibility that no one would recognize my music just because it was an overflow of emotions made me feel like a scum. Several artists wanted to buy my song, some producers thought that if someone over 30 with a steady career got hold of the track, it would be well received.
I took the first risk of my career, I hid behind a jet black synthetic hair and a little heavy makeup with a fake mole under my right eye, I created this character that protected me, someone who had confidence and strength. Those were times of change, as if for the first time the world didn't decide to spit me out. I recorded myself playing the song and uploaded it to my YouTube account, the next day Mae Lane no longer existed.
Every shout of euphoria only chants a name, a person who is actually empty.
"Let's hear it for Virgo!" I wave with my heart racing towards the cameras, but I see nothing, only white.
It's like being inside a lucid dream where you keep falling.
«Will there be something to hold on to?»
I smile at the flashes, I'm on the edge of the stage and vertigo welcomes me.
Vértigo
Crecí en un remoto pueblo que pertenece al olvido, rodeada de árboles secos, casas grisáceas y líneas pálidas en la carretera, sombras de lo que alguna vez fue una zona popular. Tener una familia disfuncional comenzó a ser común durante mi niñez, la vida laboral era tan importante para mis tres hermanos que ni siquiera tengo un recuerdo en conjunto que me enorgullezca, cada uno de ellos me abandonó antes de los 18, me dejaron atrás con una madre alcohólica y un padre efímero.
Es gracioso pensar que ahora muchos fans desean tocarme por lo menos un dedo, y mi madre no podía estar ni en la misma habitación que yo, me parecía tanto a mi padre que le producía arcadas. No tuve fiesta de los dulces 16, mi agria celebración fue tomar una guitarra robada de la preparatoria y largarme a New York.
La ciudad de los sueños, el centro de la determinación, dónde han vivido los más importantes de la élite. Un lugar despierto, flameante; la primera noche sentí como las luces me tragaban, en la segunda noche, solo hubo depresión.
Mi sueño era tan grande que no tenía espacio en mi cuerpo.
Cada noche, a través de la pequeña ventana del cuchitril que alquilé veía las bombillas de los edificios y fantaseaba con que era mi público, un mar de gente que esperaba por escuchar mi voz, y yo cantaba allí, con el cabello sin lavar, los labios agrietados del frío y un hambre casi insoportable, cantaba, todo porque quería expresar mi dolor interno con el arte más escuchado de la historia, la música.
El fuerte ruido del micrófono me saca de los recuerdos, suspiro, durante algunos conciertos suele estar ese efecto: el de viajar al pasado. Dedico una sonrisa al público porque mis pasos hacia el centro del escenario son la evidencia de cuán fuerte trabajo para no volver a la pobreza.
Las luces se apagan, y los presentadores comienzan a avivar el evento. Me acerco a mi guitarra, el único lazo que me queda de mi juventud; mi vieja Martin D-28 me acompaña desde aquellos años, cuando Janis Joplin era lo único que deseaba escuchar en la radio, tan lastimada por el pasar del tiempo que en ocasiones mi disquera no quiere que la use. Pero así es la vida, continúa lastimando hasta romperte.
Siento el efecto del ansiolítico y coloca la botella con agua en el piso, veo las luces a la distancia y el público intenta no gritar enloquecido, respiro con lentitud, esto ya no es por mi sueño, es para mantenerme en el sueño. Hago una cuenta regresiva mental de 20 segundos y cuando toco los primeros acordes de mi canción más popular, me desprendo de lo que hay a mi alrededor.
Solo hay luces, ya no hay público.
La canción que tanto aclaman, es la que más detesto. La escribí cuando tenía 17 y estaba comenzando mi primer año universitario; cuendo me sentía menos que nada y me sentaba detrás de las gradas de baloncesto después de los entrenamientos para practicar con la guitarra.
Mis dedos se mueven con total facilidad sobre los acordes, puedo tocar esta canción aunque quede sorda, es mi primer sencillo y la declaración de odio más fuerte de mi vida.
Las disqueras a las que les presenté la canción en aquel entonces no apoyaron la temática de la letra, no confiaron en que fuera un canción que gustara y menos si la cantaba una adolescente. Compuse una letra llena de tristeza, impotencia e ira hacia mi pasado, mi familia, mi pueblo, mi vida. Saber sobre la posibilidad de que nadie reconociera mi música solo por ser un desborde de emociones me hizo sentir escoria ¿acaso la música no trataba de eso, de hacer sentir? Varios artistas quisieron comprar mi canción, algunos productores pensaban que si alguien mayor de 30 con una carrera firme se hacía con el tema, sí sería bien recibida.
Tomé el primer riesgo de mi carrera, me oculté tras una melena sintética negro azabache y maquillaje un poco cargado con un lunar falso bajo mi ojo derecho, creé este personaje que me resguardaba, alguien que tenía confianza y fuerza. Esos fueron tiempos de cambio, como si por primera vez el mundo no decidiera escupirme. Me grabé tocando la canción y la subí a mi cuenta de YouTube, al día siguiente Mae Lane ya no existía.
Cada grito de euforia solo corea un nombre, una persona que en realidad está vacía.
—¡Un aplauso para Virgo! —saludo con el corazón acelerado hacia las cámaras, pero no veo nada, solo blanco.
Es como estar dentro un sueño lucido donde no dejas de caer.
«¿Habrá algo de qué aferrarme?»
Sonrío hacia los flash, estoy en el borde de la tarima y el vértigo me da la bienvenida.
Translated with DeepL Free version.
Ediciones hechas en Meitu y PicsArt
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The founder of KFC was rejected from hundreds of restaurants and became billionaire at a very old age (his story has been much inspiring to me)
JK Rowling was rejected from more than 1000 publishing houses, and yet, she had such an impact!
Keep grinding
Words like these are what motivate me to keep on writing, I really hope you liked it, I will keep on polishing it. 💪🏽
Wow 🤯🤯🤯🤯
The young man was in the auditorium, where a singer he did not know was performing. He didn't know anyone on the stage, though; he was interested in science and computers. Music? Music is noise in the background. He grabbed himself a beer at the bar (rather forced by his friends, who pulled him out of his den to clear his mind), pulled a smile on his face, and looked around. He didn't like anything while he was smiling. A bunch of people, a lot of useless chatter, the encouragement of friends, and the smell of a hundred bodies that carried only trouble. Until those 20 seconds came. Twenty seconds of silence, the first chords, her voice, and a shiver down his spine... This day wasn't worth anything but those 20 seconds...
!PIZZA
!CTP
!ALIVE
Ohhh, this made my skin crawl, it certainly gives it a more interesting touch. Thank you very much for reading me, and marveled with that contribution, a hug.
🙌💛❤️💙🙌
!CTP
@marysenpai! You Are Alive so I just staked 0.1 $ALIVE to your account on behalf of @stdd. (8/10)
The tip has been paid for by the We Are Alive Tribe through the earnings on @alive.chat, feel free to swing by our daily chat any time you want.
Saludos @marysenpai
Narración en primera persona en la que el personaje principal vive el "Vértigo" de recorrer su vida hasta el momento que arranca el primer acorde a su guitarra. Texto con aires poéticos y un final interesante.