Repeatedly Listening

The song runs through my head, lyrics progressively getting lost over how often my mind autoplays it. I walk home to the beat matching my footsteps, tracing the outline of the chorus over and over. It’s stuck in my head.

I climb the stairs and unlock the door. The tune continues as I prepare dinner, and persists as I brush my teeth. It’s haunting; the beat can’t seem to dissipate, and I try turning on some music to no avail. My brain plays louder than the radio. So I decide to go to bed early, defeated, running the beats of the music over and over through my head.

I wake up and the song is still playing. It’s supposed to be a busy day today, but I can’t get up without the sound of the chorus intensifying. It echoes as I drink my coffee, and follows me out the door as I walk to the train. Again, the beat matches my footsteps, and I almost trip over the high note.

It’s still stuck in my head as I come home. The repetitiveness is mind-numbing; no matter how much other music I play, or try to hum, I can’t escape the strains of lyrical affirmation. Later that night I give in, and watch the video again. Maybe hearing it for real will allow my brain to stop.

It’s a lost cause. The song is almost something tangible by now, following me through the air as I walk around; my brain joins in the verses, too. I can’t escape, and can practically feel the notes spinning around my head.

It’s another long day, and I’m stuck in the song.

The following morning the chorus is my alarm clock; that same high note is what wakes me up, tired and confused as I wonder why this is still stuck in my head. I curse the sky.

It follows me to class and back home, again, like it’s been doing so since the beginning of my life, the beginning of time, and it somehow becomes even more audible in my classrooms. I hear it everywhere, and it reminds me of when I used to hear those iPhone notification whistles; I thought, at first, that they were real people whistling. This song has begun sounding like that.

The music follows me home again and by now I’ve almost accepted it; I’ve gotten used to matching my footsteps to the beat, and don’t flinch when I hear sudden blasts of notes from people’s phones. It’s all the same. It’s become real, but my friend doesn’t know what I’m talking about when I ask her if she hears it, too. Didn’t she just hear the intro, as that person’s ringtone? Maybe she’s lying.

I go into the city that afternoon and I almost think there’ll be solace on the train this time, but the silence lasts for less than a minute before I hear the music again. I lean my head back against the glass and resign myself — chastise myself for daring to hope.

The song is growing on me. I give in again, today, and watch the video for the umpteenth time. It’s not that bad, maybe. Maybe it’s catchy. Maybe.

I can’t decide whether the music is following me as I walk, or whether I’m following it. I swear I sometimes hear it emanating from inside a passing store or echoing from around a corner. No one else is reacting but they all must have already gotten used to it. Am I getting used to it? I catch myself humming it in my sleep that night. It’s pervaded my dreams.

Another weekend comes around and I decide to investigate. I can’t be the only one who thinks this music is odd. I can’t be the only one for whom it hasn’t yet sunk completely into the background of life. I’ve got to find out. I need to find the source. I remember a time that I thought it was my brain playing the song, but no. It’s too tangible for that. The air is too heavy.

So I decide to follow the music and see where it goes. I’ll ignore my obligations, I don’t care; I head outside and stand confused for a second, as the music seems to come from everywhere, surrounding me. I pick a direction at random and am pleased to find that the volume increases as I go on.

The notes hang in the air and for a moment I imagine that I can see them. That high note stays especially close, taunting me, but I continue to walk forward. I hear seconds of the song echo momentarily from people as I pass them, but now I know to follow the main tune. I make a couple of false turns, but it gets louder as I go and I’m confident in my direction. My brain has long since joined in humming.

I round a corner and the music is almost deafening. There’s no turning back now. I’m alone on this street and there’s nothing coming between me and the sound. I inch towards the source.

I know it’s coming from inside that building over there. The door’s unlocked and I abandon all caution, though my mind never even pauses from the tune to issue a warning. The overhead lighting is warm but the main floor is oddly empty. I turn into a hallway.

A handsome man stands there. The music is quieter now, a faint echo, and neither of us say anything. He reaches into his pocket and hands me a CD. The cover is red and white and I still don’t know what to say. There’s a new silence here that I can’t break.

The man leaves. I still clutch the CD, and don’t see where he exits. I turn around, confused, and go back outside the way I came. The silence is all-encompassing; I can feel the CD trembling in my hand, or my hand trembling as it’s attached to my arm, or maybe the air is shaking.

I go home and put the disc in a drawer. The song has unstuck itself. I do not dream of the music.

— Lora