MARIA'S WORLD

The Story of Music by Maria Deirisarri



Do you see that door? No, not that one. The one on the left. Uh… nope, not that one either. The blue one. With the golden knob. Yep! That’s the one.


This door is very special. Take my hand, and I’ll walk you to it. As we walk there, I’ll tell you a story. The story of Music.


I walk across the meadow. The air feels so gentle. It’s so…soft. Does that work? Can air be soft? I wander over the meadow. Thousands of flowers poke up from the ground, embroidering the grass with lavender, magenta, blue, and red. Little rocks decorate the earth, lovely dots of gray against the crumbly chocolate dirt.


There are millions of doors on this meadow. Everywhere I turn my head, a door sticks out of the ground. None of them seem to lead anywhere at first glance. There’s emptiness behind them and in front of them. But I know better, and I continue walking to the blue door. That’s right–the one with the golden knob. I don’t have much further to go, and as I creep up on it, an odd presence surrounds me. I must be closer than I thought.

This door, it lets off a strange hum. Like… mmmmmm. The sound is soothing and permeates my skin, settling in the center of my chest. A few steps later, I’m directly before it. It’s a breathtaking arch, a massive entryway to a world of pure imagination. The door must be at least six feet taller than me, and now that I’m right in front of it, I can appreciate its detail. Every fathomable shade of blue is painted upon it. Cerulean angels blow on navy trumpets. Cyan vines bloom nearly silver buds. It’s beautiful.

I wrap my hand around the golden knob. The metal is warm and tingly, and the hum rushes up my arm, through my body, and nestles in my head. It momentarily becomes a part of me.


I heave open the door, overflowing with anticipation of what’s behind it. It creaks open, and its weight surprises me. I manage to slip through the slight opening before the heavy blue shuts behind me. My eyes widen at what’s been hiding behind the door. An enormous city composed of colorful little huts and an abundance of light lies before me. I look up to see the universe. There’s no baby blue sky here–it’s just endless black sprinkled with hopeful stars and shining dust. All the breath once inside me has left my body. I stumble towards the beautiful city. The more distance from the door I gain, the more the hum deconstructs. It’s not so much a constant vibration anymore. It’s a collection of billions of instruments, of voices, of emotions and feelings. It’s people and sound.


I step into the city in amazement, and a gorgeous being greets me. He has big animated eyes with irises of dark brown, like the bark of mystical forest trees. A tattoo runs down his throat in a perfect line. It’s a long word of Korean characters, and wonder boils inside me at what it might mean. Silver crosses hang from his ears, and a sparkly highlight stripes his nose. But on the back of this stunning man, giant wings spread into the air. They look delicate yet powerful. Gold is laced around their edges and is used to swirl striking designs in their center. They’re not quite those big feathery angel wings. They’re more like soft, powdery fairy wings. Perfect and beautiful.

The man with wings smiles warmly, and in a rich voice, introduces the city and himself. “Welcome to Music. I’m the Messenger. How can I help you? Are you here to listen or create?”


I’m taken aback by everything. How can the world be this incredible? I answer, “To create.”


He gently takes my hands, and I barely notice my feet lifting off the ground. A little “Wow” escapes me as the Messenger and I zoom over this glowing city of music. A blur of yellow light and bright color rushes below me. We land, and he leads me to a very plain, small, white hut. It’s dark inside.

Still holding one of my hands, he walks me to its door. It isn’t blue with a golden knob. But I step inside anyway. My fingers discover a small switch on the wall, and I flick on a single, tiny light. The Messenger chuckles and says, “Welcome to your Music hut. You can make this anything you want it to be. All you have to do is be whoever you feel like. If you need anything, call on me.”


I glance back at him. “Do you have a guitar? A paper and pen?”


“Indeed I do.” He hands me my desired materials, seemingly pulling them out of thin air. He leaves.


There’s a small wooden table in my hut, and I sit on the chair tucked beneath it. I prop my guitar up next to me, smooth out the paper, and click my pen. Blue ink floats inside of it. I write my first word. Where.


That’s the word.

Where.


A tiny light appears inside of my hut. I look up in surprise to see that it is the only one illuminated on a string of more lights that trace the roof. The light gives off a warm yellow glow. I continue writing.


are

Another light.


you

Another light.


going


Another light.

Where are you going and I already have four more lights. A question mark.


?


Another light. Where are you going?

I don’t stop writing. The room comes alive. I pick up my guitar and hold it close to my heart. I play a chord. It’s not the right one, so my fingers shift around on the fret. Even as I mess up again and again, color is born on the walls of my hut. Each minute that passes, an explosion of blue and yellow and green and red and purple blooms across the floor and wallpaper and popcorn ceiling. Blurry letters of coral pink and bioluminescent algae green appear on the wall next to me. I sing. The letters form my name. Maria Deirisarri. It’s beautiful.


I put my guitar down and walk to the door. I dare to look outside. My hut’s still the same on the outside. Plain, white, small. That’s okay. I haven’t shared what I’ve created with anyone yet. I will, though. I look around, peering deep into the city. Other people’s huts morph and change colors as I stare at them. A never-ending cycle of growth.


I retreat into my hut once more. I call to my mom. I don’t know how she even gets here, but Music’s a strange, nonsensical world. You can do anything here. I show her what I’ve made. My fingers pick a chord on my guitar, and immediately, the outside of my hut starts glowing. Colors fade into existence, blur into one another, paint flowers and vines on the outside walls. Such beauty surrounds me. The hum that I felt in my soul before opening the big blue door with the golden knob–it’s somehow spread to me. I’ve become a voice in this magnificent orchestra of people.

And in this tiny hut that belongs to no one else but me, I’ve created my music. I’ve created who I want to be in this world of art. I’m changing my hut, painting it, and lighting it up by the second. I see my name on that wall and can change it anytime I want to. But just the way it is right now, it’s there. Looking at me, a girl with wild hair, eyes that are alive, and an orange guitar.


I can be whoever I want to be, and I can give this world whatever I want to. I open the door of my hut once more to look at what changes I’ve made. My hut has grown, and it’s become something more and more colorful as I’ve written and created more music. Every time I share my art with my family, my friends… There’s something about this world of music, this world with the blue door at its entrance. There’s so much community, love, and acceptance here because you cannot lie in your music. You can change who you are, you can create a persona to present to the outside world. But you are still honest. Your music is your soul, and your soul gives you the words to craft your dreams. And your dreams will carry you to the stars.


And so, I put my pencil down to walk outside of my hut. I close the door behind me and look at its plain brownness. It’s waiting for something. I brush my fingers on its smooth wood, tracing an invisible line from its center to its knob. I give the door what I choose to share with the world. I whisper one word. Music. The door shifts and moves and folds in on itself, and in a blinding flash of light, it explodes with every fathomable shade of blue. Cerulean angels blow on navy trumpets. Cyan vines bloom nearly silver buds. Its knob melts and reforms, painting itself gold. It’s beautiful. It’s what it needs to be.

I call on the Messenger with the delicate fairy wings, the silver cross earrings, and the tattoo upon his throat. He comes to me, takes my hands, and whisks me to the entrance of the city. He opens the door for me so easily, as if it weren’t so heavy anymore.


He says, “Welcome home. Come back anytime, my love. I’ll see you soon.”


I step outside of the big blue door, and it closes behind me. I’m afraid to turn around and have it disappear. But I quickly glance back anyway. It’s still there. The tiniest, purest smile escapes me. I walk through this meadow of a thousand flowers once more. I’ve found something beautiful that I want to be a part of, because I’ve found Music, and Music means more than what I know how to say.