I dreamed of the lake again.
It's been a while since I've been back there, standing on the banks, the cool water lapping at my ankles. The lake is always calm, quiet, and peaceful. It would be considered a sanctuary for a mind that is always teeming with new ideas, with the desire to do and move, and become greater.
I long for the lake to be my tranquil retreat.
But its placid waters do not inspire calmness within me, but a kind of futility that makes my bones ache and my throat clench. It reminds me that time is moving, that I should be moving as well. I should be doing, making, reaching the world with my music -
And yet...
It's never the whole story. Those who hear my music, who feel this ache that I've housed inside me since I was young? They glorify my name, throw flowers at my feet, and blow kisses into the air whenever they see me. They love me; for the story, the music, for the fragment inside of me that sees the fragment inside of them. Through me, they know they aren't alone, and all anyone ever wants in this life is to be seen.
But it's not enough. It doesn't feel like enough.
...There's a part of me that knows it should be. That the music I create and birth into the world, when it reaches those who are meant to hear it? That should be enough. When they cry because they finally understand the raw truth of yearning and laugh because they aren't alone? Those moments should be treasured!
So why doesn't it feel like enough? Why doesn't it feel as if my music matters? Why do I still long for these things that I can't give a name to, but fester inside of me like an open wound? I would heal it if I could, stitch it shut so I don't feel so broken all the time. Maybe then I can finally stop weighing what I've done against what I haven't.
Maybe then it'll be enough.
The walk to her studio was a short one from this bus stop – ten minutes if she hustled, twenty if she dwadled. And with so much on her mind, the echo of the lake being at the forefront of her thoughts, she preferred to dwaddle. To stick her hands in the pockets of her jeans, tilt her head back, and let the setting sun bathe her face and the cool wind wipe away the sweat from her brow.
Dwaddling meant wandering past the tiny park with the gazebo that hadn't been repaired in years, the very same park that she first performed her music at. Back then, she hadn't thought about it seriously. It was just a dare by some friends, a thing to do when they were on the way home from school. She couldn't remember who brought the boombox or what she sang, but the moment she got up on that rickety stage, clutching that plastic karaoke mic in her hand, the ache that had been with her every morning and every evening since she could remember lessened.
Valentine's finger hovered over the backspace arrow on the keyboard of her smartphone, her lower lip tugged between her teeth as her eyes read the words a second time. And then a third time.
Even as they bounced around in her head, she could feel the futility of her journal entry welling up inside her, like something rotten rolling around in her stomach. She shifted in the plastic seat and sighed, her head lifting to peek out the window as the bus continued out into one of the suburbs of the city.
The sun was setting. By all rights, she should've been on her way home, but there was that familiar ache inside of her, the one that pushed her to move and do even when she was at her limit. She swallowed the thought and rolled her eyes at herself. She was being over-dramatic. The week had been difficult – complete with paying bills and visiting people she didn't want to – but she was hardly burned out from it.
…Right?
The brakes on the bus squealed to a stop, and Valentine jerked in her seat as the doors hissed open and the driver peeked at her from the overhead mirror.
“Last stop, ma'am,” he rumbled around the cigarette between his lips. “Unless you wanna head to the terminal and then loop back into the city?”
“No, no,” Valentine said with a false smile while standing up, pins and needles making the muscles in her calves twitch. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Don't thank me,” the man replied with a smirk as she meandered down the steps and out the double doors. “Thank you for paying your taxes. That's the only reason I get to keep this job.”
As she stepped down onto the concrete sidewalk, she turned over her shoulder and chuckled at the bus driver. She had the urge to wink at him, but stifled it. Instead, she nodded in farewell as he touched the brim of his hat, closed the double doors, and eased the bus back onto the road. The stink of exhaust fumes and a cloud of dust pelted her as it veered off into the early evening.
No, it didn't lessen – it was transformed.
Now, walking past it, her eyes peeking over hedges that hadn't been cut and dead leaves that accumulated around their roots, she could only hum fondly at the memory. The feelings erupted then— the surprise of her friends, the adrenaline rush. It sang through her almost as loudly as she sang to the few people gathered that day.
If anyone had told her then that she would be on her way to her own studio to record another song, she would have laughed in their face. Recording, singing, allowing her music out into the world – it was the only thing that could transmute this feeling of 'not enough, not yet' into something beautiful. Something that would make her feel complete, if only for a moment.
Her fans would hear it, would feel it, and that would be enough.
She hoped.
The studio was cold and dark when she arrived, not unusual considering the time of day and the fact that she was the only one who visited. She took off her outer layers, placed her bag down, dug out her notebook filled with song lyrics, and headed into the booth.
The first song had come to her in a rush, written in one sleepless night and sung with the reckless certainty of someone who had nothing to lose. But now? Now she had everything—an audience, a reputation, expectations she could never quite meet. What if she could never find that same spark again? What if all she was good for was one gift to her audience and nothing more?
It almost stops her dead. That thought alone is enough for the pounding of her heart to echo in her ears, for her breath to stutter, and the lyrics on the page to waver in and out of focus. Was that why she never felt as if it was enough? Did the muses grant her a single mote of inspiration, and once she had used it, she was done? Washed up?
Clenching her jaw, she shook her head to clear the oppressive thoughts swimming through her mind. It was a disservice to herself and her fans that she even entertained that thought. Especially because there was nothing that said that was the case, that she was a one-hit wonder. Her fans had loved her debut song, had raved about it online for weeks after it hit the airwaves. If anything, they clamored for more of her, not less.
Her fingers tightened around the mic, knuckles pale in the dim light. She let the silence stretch, listening to the faint hum of the soundboard, the muted throb of her own pulse. It was familiar in the same way breathing was familiar, almost as comforting as a warm blanket during a snowstorm.
Valentine leaned into those feelings as that well-known ache rose in her chest. There was no stifling it, no shying away from it, or ignoring it. So, she allowed it in, allowed it to travel through her, along every nerve and synapse.
She drew in a breath, opened her mouth, and began.