The fragments of something you cherish are there in the distantly familiar chords. In these moments before the sudden onslaught of euphoria, the music suspends you in saccharine limbo. It's there and you know it -- you know you're on the precipice of a miracle whose identity escapes you. And so you comb through the sound for the snapshots it has evoked in your mind's eye, for the moods you've laced through it.

These are the memories you've made with yourself and your solitude; no one else hears it as you do. No one else could piece together your unique mosaic of images, places, and textures. The music is a love letter from its composer directly to you.

You reach through the haze for the touch of a memory, but its butterfly wings just graze the northernmost poles of your fingers before evading you wholly.

And then, as the guitar strikes the defining note, the downbeat of your recollection swings back up. The music reminds you who you are, who you've always been, in the very instant you figure out who IT is. You oblige its invitation to step into its current. The place it takes you to cannot be accessed by any other mode of transportation, so you let it wash over yourself and relish each immeasurable interval of time it does so.

It is proof you're not alone.

It is the antidote to all of life's poisons, pitfalls, and roadblocks.

It is your favorite song.

It is the one your soul has been singing since the genesis of time.

© Jaz Rogers