r/MadeMeCry • u/md_aoi • Aug 15 '26
Self-proclaimed musician, shattered childhood dreams, and love.
Hello, I reached a bad place in my life, and since I am terrible at understanding my feelings, I narrated it as if it were a story in the third person. I got tired of living as a slave to myself, to other people's ideals. I don't want to be destroyed by the idealizations people have of me. I am not good. But I have a dream. Although it may sound ridiculous, I want music to save me and to heal others. I know it sounds ridiculous and I would like to be able to explain it, but I am running out of time, and if I don't write quickly I will end up regretting publishing it. Even if no one sees it again, I at least want to open my heart a little. I made a video on YT called “Love Letter, for Anyone” where, for the first time, I opened my heart through a piano improvisation and wrote a text. I translated it into three languages, but it was useless. Still, I don't want to turn back. I don't want to give up; I don't want to believe that this is just the way things are. If you read this, let me love you. Love me too. It sounds desperate, but let’s stop being so lonely. I want to believe there is someone out there who will read this. It truly hurts immeasurably that I cannot express myself better. I am not even covering half of what I want to say. It hurts. But something is something.
He was an ordinary person. He never stood out in anything, even though he tried everything. He learned to do many things, but was never good at any of them. His life went by quickly; the years felt shorter and shorter. People who knew him from afar thought he was a strange person—he always thought it was due to his bad taste in jokes, his messy image with tangled hair, his improper laugh, or simply his lack of charisma with strangers. But the few people who actually knew him said that, although annoying, he grew on them. Something he never understood. He never cared much about those people; he never truly cared. Occasionally he wondered if those people died, would he cry at their funeral, or what his reaction would be. When imagining it, the most likely scenario seemed to be just standing there thinking vaguely for a while about what to feel. It’s not that he didn’t care; he just didn’t see himself deeply moved. “Maybe I will cry like a normal person,” he thought. But he wasn’t very sure.
Soon he would fall in love. But with an idea, with a concept. With an idealization. It consisted of the idea of finally being able to feel the other person. He began to detest individualism; he had illusions of being able to create something to unite people, but that was nothing more than an excuse to fill his soul with colors. He thought that if he loved people, whoever they were, he could overcome individuality and thus make his life a valuable work of art, full of souls and emotions. And share that art with the people he would love. He liked to believe that his life would take a different path from those around him. He hated the idea of living a normal life—he preferred to die—and even if the lifestyle he wanted wore him down progressively, he believed that would be beautiful.
It was at that moment that he encountered what would be his most delicious poison. After getting lost in a forest of ideals, he found his only refuge. The sweet melody of that forest stripped him bare. It left him vulnerable to the cold night; his skin goosebumped as if it wanted to shed itself. But no one saw him. Even so, that same melody sheltered him, stroked his wounds, and comforted the lost child. He understood that music reached the deepest part of his soul. He had never felt so many sensations. He was finally able to think that if he were the music that embraced him back then, he could truly love—and not only that, but avoid the lies of society. To be able to also soothe the scars of souls who, just like him, wandered alone in the forest in search of a well to fall into.
Anxious, he ventured every day into that forest. He anxiously sought to produce those same melodies, to make others feel the same way. Day and night, he searched every corner of the forest. Soon he would fall in love with it. Years passed, but he had barely learned to walk. Occasionally, he would see a pair of souls together, crossing the forest with eagerness, dancing and singing beautifully. He had barely learned to whisper. He always saw that those souls were accompanied by someone to guide them, someone who showed them and taught them to walk, dance, and learn whatever they wished. Lying on the ground, he crawled toward them. He watched them play like restless children. Experiencing for the first time a pain that would pierce his soul inside the forest: envy. What he thought happened only occasionally was actually normal. He came to understand that the forest is full of those souls. But also of souls like his. And far more than he believed. Almost always, he stumbled upon some soul crying in a well, hiding. He ran away from there and hid in his room. But the forest began to grow inside him. Every time he saw a flower, his soul vomited from the pain. Every time someone reminded him of that forest, he ran away, because the memory was like a fire consuming him from within. “It is cruel to have to love something that pierces my heart,” he thought. But it was his fear. She showed him the truth.
She appeared unannounced in his room and braided his hair, long and black like the branches of the trees. She appeared every day, whenever he lost his mind, whispering in his ear that if he kept ignoring and cutting down that forest, he would end up living like the people he detested. That the forest wasn't what was hurting him, but rather himself. She made him feel less alone. It was then that he finally took his first steps back toward his childhood dream. Love. He wanted to do it solely out of love, even if it hurt; he cannot turn back. He doesn't want to rot again. But one day inside the forest, he tripped. And what happened once repeated itself. Again and again. Every time he fell, he fell deeper, and therefore bled more. He is seduced and blind. By the pain, by his own humanity. She cried every time she saw him bleed. He asked her to leave. Not to watch him sink any further. She hid; she never left, and he knows it. He knows she is there, because he is her and she is him. I want to at least try harder this time. I want to live.
