Tap, Tap, Tap

I write.

Songs. Lyrics. Stories.

Often ending with me chasing melodies.

Melodies that don’t come.

That are just out of reach.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I tap the tip of my pen against the edge of my notebook, the edges frayed.

A word arrives, but just as quickly, it skirts out of reach.

I chase it with a line.

I chase it with a melody I cannot hum—not yet.

It’s a dance. Sometimes a foxtrot, sometimes a waltz, but most times it’s…

messy, unpredictable, stubborn.

Somewhere, a computer writes too.

It never hesitates.

It never taps.

It never waits.

It never loses a word.

Do I compete with it?

Or am I just proving to myself that I still can?

It can make perfect songs in seconds, but can it feel the longing in the pause?

Can it taste the quiet disappointment when nothing lands?

I scribble a line. Cross it out.

Write another. Then another.

I argue with the rhythm of the words.

I ask them to make sense. They refuse.

I sigh. I tap again.

I wait.

The computer doesn’t wait.

It doesn’t know what it’s like to wait.

It cannot carry heartbreak.

It cannot remember laughter.

It cannot be haunted by yesterday or hopeful for tomorrow.

It cannot tremble with a note, a line, a thought.

And still, I compete.

I compete with something that is faster, cleaner, flawless.

But can it love the flaws?

Can it know the thrill of a lyric landing just right?

Can it sit in a quiet room and feel a song in its bones?

No.

It cannot.

It can generate thousands of melodies, millions of words.

But it cannot live in them the way I do.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I keep writing.

I keep chasing.

I keep living in my songs.

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Human.

Flawed.

Real.

Performing a cover of Tom Jones’ THUNDERBALL during the unforgettable COVID-19 lockdown. I recorded this from home as a special birthday request.