i have wrapped myself in melodies like a lost child in blankets for a long as i can remember. blindly, i have felt my way through labyrinths seeking the safe havens beneath the organ listening for the red flares of the sun seeking the face, my prosopagnosia will not lose in the mall and the voice my synesthesia loves to paint with. dutifully, i have imagined flying picking up the broom in my hands belting as loudly as i can and soaring far above the clouds - painting my skin green because it is passable the only "girl's" role i have ever wanted. fearfully, i hide beneath the table, dodging bits of smashed glass. sometimes, the doctor and i lie side by side and wonder what not lying by omission might feel like. at other times, the creature and i discuss what it might mean to be loved. lovingly, i cradle their faces my parent's hands cupping each school boy's cheeks, as i memorize voices singing "drink with me; remember my life means something." names, i do not remember, but the songs, their communion, i know. note by note, i sing myself a home: an underground lake, a castle in the west a disheveled lab armchair, a house on rue plumet, and - when i am sad- i run home to the music notes that have made me who i am. in the labyrinth, i defy gravity, and feel alive; for they tell me "who am i?": a musical medley of a life of near thirty years - p. s. shuller.














