➝ recording studio

@h. miyoung /embraced by the orotund haze, a dalliance of sounds almost sinful, mellifluous sea with tides ever so dulcet, strong waves of pulchritude reverberating the room, dispersing into the ripples that settle into every pore of my skin, instilling me with the magnificent timbre wrapping itself around my heart, pumping blood along the rhythm of the song, I remain serene, the musical trance displaying itself only in the way slender fingers drum against the surface of the table, head bobbing to the beat overwhelming the room, delivering subtle tremor within my body that soon elicits the vibrations of my chords, lyrics I’ve been trying to imprint into the clean sheet as my own flash of poetry, an assemble of melancholic confession veiled by the opulence of expressed feelings lacking the delicacy a poet possesses slipping past the confines of the heart-shaped lips, coated with the rich depth of my voice that quietly melts into the invisible stave. There’s a particular indulgence hiding within the solitude of the moment as I arrange the encounter of words and notes, a comely marriage that would ring in the ears in the manner most blissful, attempt to commence the harmony in the chaos resonating my head, next stanza teasing the end of my tongue and desiring to roll off it, elope the cage of my throat as a sound complimenting the melody soaking through the speakers.
Hm…
/a short shot of disapproval prompts itself in the back of my throat as thick eyebrows meet in a fleeting frown, gaze focused on the scribbled syllables evoking no reminiscence of neatness on the paper perpetually crumpled in frustration, squinted eyes nearly threatening to bore holes in the innocent sheet as the pencil performs like the acrobat, dancing and tumbling between the fingers mercilessly toying with the item, just as if the action itself was meant to brought a sudden epiphany, a flood of suiting words bursting into my heart and reaching the brims of my existence, the zenith of lyrical mastery pouring itself into the awaiting piece of paper. ‘Useless’ I conclude, secretly cursing myself under my breath as I cross out the words, immersed thoroughly in my work.