Music blared through the small speakers on the long, oak desk as meat sizzled away on the stove. The beef ‘popped’ every now and then, splattering near objects with scalding grease. The house was empty, save for myself and our two dogs, so there was no need for me to worry about what came through the speakers; no lyrics for my mother to become upset over, no phrases whose meanings I’d have to explain. It was one of those moments I felt okay, dancing around the kitchen to Guns ‘n’ Roses as I prepared supper for when the house became more populated later in the evening. The day had been rather long and wearisome but when the light, buttery yellow of “Sweet Child O Mine” surrounded me I felt at peace. The color was barely there, like a mist in my mind’s eye, but its presence calmed me and made me think of daffodils and autumn afternoons. My anxieties and depression seemed to disappear on the warm breeze that blew bright leaves around my dancing feet and I forgot all else except the pleasant sensation of contentment which enveloped me like warm rays of sunlight as the taste of caramel melted on my tongue.
When the song ends, the scene dissipates with it and in the few seconds before the next song begins, I turn off the stove. The color blue explodes in my vision with the opening to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. It’s bright, like a cloudless sky above a glassy lake in the evening, getting darker as the sun goes down and the song continues until it crescendos in the blackest blue and the rising of the moon. The nipping night air tingles against my goose-pimpled arms and sends a chill down my spine as the song shifts. Happiness rises in my chest and my face breaks into a smile, something I haven’t truly done for some time. As my lips part and my laugh bubbles from my throat, it feels… right. Bon Jovi’s sap green spills into me like oil and I see a dusty old Chevrolet and the smell of cigarettes sits in my nose. There are long walks and ripped grey jeans, empty guitar cases and the feeling of sitting alone on a bench in the park. It is summer and heat and the sweet relief of living. No longer am I dancing, but swaying my hips gracefully to the music as I chop vegetables and place them in separate bowls on the counter in front of me.
“Bohemian Rhapsody” floats in, the words coming to me like nostalgia and the red pepper my knife slices through reflects the color of Freddie Mercury’s voice, bright and commanding attention. A fire flickers in my imagined fireplace and a warm woolen blanket wraps around my shoulders as the taste of black coffee permeates my mouth. I hear friends laughing and feel dirt beneath my bare feet and the smell of my mother’s home-baked cookies fills the air. The color floats and falls around me, darkening and then shining in my vision before it fades to black and is gone.
No more sound comes from the speaker, no more colors in my mind. The colors return to grey as quickly and as easily as they had come, leaving me feeling hollow with loneliness for them. My anxiety comes rushing back in, depression, like a cloud of disease settles itself over me once again. I finish my preparations and step back from the counter. As I breathe in deeply, my eyes falling shut, I can still sense the colors’ lingering presence. I see them like particles in the atmosphere, I feel them under my skin, in my veins. Even though they are not visible to anyone I know but me, they are real. There are others like me who “see” music in colors, who sense them like eyes seeing after they go blind. Scientists call it chromesthesia, a form of sound-to-color synesthesia. To us privileged few, music is like individuals; no songs are the same. They come in different hues and tones, like a giant color wheel inside of me. Each one invokes different sensations, shows a different scene, displays a different part of me. That, my friend, is the power they hold. The power of the colors of music.
