Another short story inspired by MGMT, this time it’s this beautiful video:

Once again, it’s pretty obvious where I got my ideas from! If you do watch that video, google “Ako at si Michael” and “Границы Мира MGMT”, too. It’s wild.



—

Damn it, Michael… how often have i already tried to banish you from my head?



You keep finding new disguises. You keep sneaking behind the scenes and pulling the strings. My last memories of you are your tool, and you‘re building a wall, little by little. The only thing coming through the wall are these miserable, numbing questions. They all go in a circle, and i am increasingly unable to concentrate on anything else.

I watch the rain.

It‘s rhythmic drumming polishes the steel and concrete of the city, and calms me hypnotically. Far below, small dark spots swarm around, all of them in a hurry, absorbed in their thoughts. Are you hiding somewhere in there? …No. Surely not. Nobody is up this late, only sick or crazy people.

But who is supposed to sleep with this noise? Forgotten promises and last words echo through my narrow four walls like a broken record.

If you at least had the decency to be honest… at least put the final nail in the coffin. Nothing is worse than a soundless ending.

I look away from the window and my alarm clock brutally shines into my face: Three in the morning.

One thing can still save me. The same thing that saved me in so many of these sleepless nights. I stumble over to my piano and play a soft chord. The comforting sound lets me think of something else for a second. Each chord whispers to me where the next one is hidden, and i lure a few more warm, enveloping tones out of the keys.

If i just play for long enough, maybe i will still find some peace this night. I let my hands glide, and almost by itself, my piano tells me a consoling story. It‘s lofty heights, somber lows and tragic riddles and twists let me forget everything else.

I let the story rest for a bit, take a deep breath. Mechanically, like in every one of these sleepless nights, i reach to my right and grab my camera. Click. I‘ll have it listen to my story, and then maybe my aimless playing around is not completely for nothing.

I continue, but the gentle distraction keeps my restlessness at bay only for a short while. Open questions and loose ends crash in on me, bury me under their flood. Your last words. Your timid manner. Why did you behave like somebody different? What are you hiding?

Almost completely passively, i let the tormenting beasts loose and translate them into sequences of notes. Their blind attacks self-assemble into harmonies, follow each other as melodies.

I hope you‘re listening, Michael. This is my goodbye.

I let my seething anger guide me and rush over the keys, faster, rougher, more violent. Damn, this feels amazing. I can‘t quite follow it myself anymore, my confusion drags me across the keys. Back and forth through bygone melodies and new outbursts, each note banishing you from my life a little more, every swipe across the keys directed against you, and slowly, almost leisurely, a tiny little melody crystallizes in all the chaos. It‘s plain, inconspicuous, almost drowns in everything else, but i keep coming back to it. The eye of the storm. I passively indulge in the sounds a while more, until i slowly but surely reach a certain calm – and there she is again, my small innocent friend. I bring her back and let her fade away, again and a gain, letting my head be a little more free each time, until everything gently fades to silence. Real silence this time.

The sudden energy leaves me again, and I am reminded with full force of how long I‘ve already been sleepless. I grab my camera again, clutch it close and and collapse a little. I will make sure you hear me loud and clear this time. With my last strength, I stagger over to my laptop, its contrast beams at me with the perceived force of three suns, and I navigate over to my channel - “AnnaInsomnia2“. Embarrassing. The first name was taken. The video joins countless other recordings of my nightly piano escapades, and in just a few hours my few loyal followers will ask themselves what on earth has gotten into me. And you Michael, you probably do that already anyways. Farewell.

I stumble out of my channel and through the internet for a bit – who knows, the world could have ended in the last few hours. I would not have noticed, deeply secluded in my personal tiny little echo chamber. Passively, I skim through one post after the next. Angered voices shout into the void and are self-absorbed enough to demand an answer, too. Between those, there‘s the usual polished faces, cat pictures of course and – hey! A comment.

“wow wow wow… you keep getting better! <3“

Of course, Lisabear25. You say that every time.

After some more aimless scouring, my nose hits my keyboard and I finally drift towards dreams.





Sunlight tears my eyes open and my body pretends to be awake. What the hell was that just now? What a strange dream. Flute players with masks, someone helpless and fettered… well, if I‘ve ever slept well, today was not that day. But whatever, I didn‘t really have plans anyways. I stretch myself and – oh, seems like I’ve fallen asleep on the laptop again. Damn. I look over the screen briefly. Wait a minute, am I still dreaming? My channel is littered with comments, hordes of fans. I barely recognize my little corner of the internet – I’m not alone anymore!

All of my videos have more views than I could have ever dreamed of. Paralyzed, I stare at the little number under “Michael”, the newest video. That’s more people than could ever fit into my room. More than ever listened to me in my entire life, more than an entire concert hall, just for my strange mental breakdown on the piano at night. And all of them are strangers.

It feels like I stole someone else’s place. Someone sympathetic, someone that people listen to. Someone that understands others.

Thousands of unknown faces, and all of them seem to congratulate me – for what? I stumbled into somebody else’s skin. Whoever deserves all this, she is very, very far away from me. Speechless, I click through my notifications, really want to look away and understand what is going on, but the flood of praise and attention seems to have no end. I should be thankful, but instead there is just confusion and this feeling of being an impostor. My phone vibrates and forces me out of my trance, and the next message brings me to a halt completely. I hold my phone in both hands, trembling, clinging on to it like my future is going to dissolve into thin air if I let go now. I read the first few lines again and again to convince myself they are real.

An email from Cadena, the record label that I’ve been religiously following for ten years now. Each of their artists has practically become part of my flesh and blood. I feel like I owe their music my life with how often they have pulled me out of the abyss.

“Hi, Anna!”

So far, so good.

“We saw your latest video.”

Surreal and basically delusional, but I already reconciled with that idea.

“We (that’s Jeff and Carissa)” – my god, it’s really them – “are pretty blown away by it and think you would seamlessly fit into our little family over here. So come visit us! We look forward to getting to know you.”

The following are Cadena’s usual formalities which I have seen so often at this point that they have been burned into my brain. I close my eyes and lean back. This is real. I often went through similar scenarios in my head, indulged in the fantasy of being in the same boat with my heroes. To do for others what they did for me. It’s hard to get rid of the thought that all of this is just a huge bluff and I will be figured out once I arrive. But I have no choice anymore, and no time to lose.





After way too many botched attempts, my hair is tamed, my best shirt is found – not too obvious, nobody likes fangirls – and my hand is on the doorknob.

Just one last swing, and – really? A phone call? Who would – oh. I press the green button. “Yes, mom?”

“Sweetheart! I think I’m dreaming!”

“Y… uh… yeah, me too. Listen, can you maybe –“

“And you never did tell us about this You-Tube thing, did you? Darling, you know you don’t have to have any secrets with us, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Look, I need to –“

“You were on TV today! I could not believe my eyes… we’re so proud of you!”

“I – wait, seriously? When was that?”

I have not owned a TV for years. My dad violently snatches the phone: “You’re not running away this time, we have not heard from you in so long – hey, they’re showing you again! –“

My mom yanks the phone back.

“I never thought I’d see the day! Oh, what are they saying now…”

I can hear the leather chair crinkle as she leans forward to read better. She probably misplaced her reading glasses again.

“AnnaInsomnia2, the overnight You-Tube sensation… was… whaat? Was… accused of plagiarism by… Dehn…bohr…?”

My dad interferes from the back: “Denbora Makina… huh? Anna? What’s going on…”

I can’t do anything except pause and look for answers, but there’s nothing. My mom keeps reading: “The Spanish rock band accuses the You-Tube-star of ripping off their melody from the song ‘True Face’, and demand… Anna? Can you explain?”

No. No, I can’t. The phone slides out of my hand and slams against the floor, the lump in my throat feels like a huge ball made of iron. Impossible. That melody… I found it yesterday night. It was a part of my story. Nobody else can have it. Nobody else was in my situation. The concentrated rage of yesterday comes back to me. That melody was my friend, my path into the future… I am not a thief, and I am not a fraud. “NO!”. My fist slams against the door. “NOOO!”.

“Calm down over there”.

Who the fuck…? I slowly turn to my couch, and a laid-back guy with a hoodie and a mask is making himself comfortable on it.

“What the –“

“Psst!”, the guy interrupts me with a finger on the mask, right where the lips should be. He calmly conjures up a flute, and plays: In just the first few tones I recognize the melody I found yesterday. I shiver violently and the only thing I can think of is escape. I turn around to the door, but there is nothing anymore. And I mean absolutely nothing. Everything is black. Everywhere. Just the melody is left. I get lightheaded, my sense of balance fails me, and I fall to the ground where a wall should have been.





Tumultuous applause. Thundering lights. I’ve melted somewhere into the horde a long time ago. It stomps and screams: “En-core!”

I am a face in a sea of many. “En-core!”

As an e-guitar starts droning, the horde is getting louder, more enveloping.

„So the story leads us to a new place…“

The frontman’s mouth is moving, but the howling voices of the mass overrule him.

„But you know I‘ve seen this all before“

The warm air around me is vibrating. The smell of sweat overwhelms me. How long have I been standing here?

„Show me your True Face, girl“

No, god damn it. Not again. My melody!

„Show me your True Face some more“

What an irritating, ear-piercing chorus.

„And light the torch!“

God, what an atrocious song. Shallow, pompous radio rock. Why do people even dig this stuff? It feels like someone stole my melody and raped it. And a last time, the horde repeats in unison:

„AND LIGHT THE TORCH!!“

The crowd of people around me melts away, and only the stage is left, with the grinning visages of the band, and the melody that’s fading away. In the middle of it stands the relaxed dude with the flute.

“So there you are. Don’t run away this time, you hear?”

The rest of the band disappears behind the curtains, dragging their instruments with them.

“You’re really making this difficult, you know… normally people are a bit easier to get through to. You have to understand, I’m just trying my best here. I tried to give you a friendly visit, but it seems you didn’t want that. Well, and now we have it. Come on, get up here. On the stage.”

“W… uh… what… who are… D-den… Makina? Am I dreaming?”

The lanky guy calmly puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and chuckles to himself.

“Nah, not really. Denbora Makina are in the middle of nowhere right now and getting filthy rich off of your ad revenue. Just stole their appearance for a bit. That’s the good part of having a mask like this! Not their biggest fan, but I like their style. So easygoing. Well, come now, up on the stage with you.”

Nope, no chance.

“I’m just trying to free you, you know. This is not how it works. Believe me, you can’t do this alone. For fucks sake, you’re flying back and forth between aggressive episodes and numb melancholy like a god damn ping-pong ball! What are you staring at me like that for? If you go on pouting like that, nobody here is gonna move forward.”

No movement, just don’t give in.

The guy in the mask turns around resignedly. “Boys, seems like we have to lure her out. Bring it in.”

In just a few moments, a few masked men heave a gigantic grand piano on the stage, as if someone grabbed it straight out of my dreams. My whole life I imagined sitting in front of a real grand piano for the first time… oh… oh no. I want to touch it. “What… what is all of this? What do you want from me?”

“We just have to summon somebody – oh, don’t look at me like that. Believe me, this is best for you. Before we do that you won’t leave this place.

I try to move away, but something winds around my hip and ties me down.

“The more you try to resist, the more it will hurt. I can’t do this for you. So come on, make it painless.”

I’m tangled tight in a rope that reaches up on the stage, behind the grand piano, and through the curtains. No matter where I try to move, the rope pulls me forward. “What do you even mean? Summon? Who? Why? I just want to –“

“The only thing you have to do now is play. Sit down and play – the rest happens by itself.”

I give in to the rope and follow it to the front of the piano. I don’t need to ask. I know exactly what is asked of me. Let’s do this.

I conjure up everything once again. Michael. The rainy night. The prison of yesterday which I thought I escaped. And once I again I perform the entire play. The lofty passages, the breakneck turns. All of it once again. I feel like an old lady whose grandkid is shouting “Again, again!” for the third time now and reluctantly bringing the same old story to life again. And again I come back to the then so innocent sounding little melody, again and again it resounds and floats away. This time, it no longer leaves me with freedom, but feels like a heavy brick in my stomach.

The masked guy applauds wildly, and I slowly open my eyes again. “I knew you got this down! And now the last act, the reason why you’re here.”

The gigantic piano disappeared again, and I feel somebody is reluctantly tied to the other end of the rope and fighting back.

“You never learned to let go.”

The masked guy pulls the rope, and my counterpart stumbles through the curtains, immediately trying to avoid my eye.

“M-Michael… what… how did –”

“Not my fault, you did this to him.”, the masked guy interrupts. “If you knew how many times I had to go through this scene. All strokes of genius have been on my canvas already, and all stories have been lived through by me. And always the same lesson: Michael belongs to no-one. In plain terms: What you found yesterday, this idea you’ve been clinging to as if it would save you – it’s not yours. And just as little does it belong to some band from País Vasco.”

Michael stares into the air next to me and gulps. “What the hell is this guy talking about?”

The guy in the mask sighs. “Why am I even telling you this? You’ll see it eventually. If you have the honor of finding something really meaningful, don’t make it your prisoner. Be happy to have met it. None of your stories are ever really new. What matters is how you tell them, and who is listening.”

Michael stares at me, inquiring, but I don’t have answers.

The masked guy seems to enjoy the awkward silence for a bit, and then turns to me: “You don’t really believe you got rid of each other yesterday night, did you? You packaged him up, put a neat bow on it and shoved him into a drawer at the back of your head. It will never end this way, trust me, a real goodbye looks different. Here.”

The guy with the mask reaches into his hoodie’s pockets and brings out a burning torch.

“Either you let this rope between you hang there forever, or you finally put an end to things. It will be excruciating, but you’ll survive. Trust me, I’ve seen it enough times.”

He presses the torch into my hand.

“But.. should I… ?”

“Yeah, the rope burns pretty well. Alright, I gotta go free somebody else. Adieu.”

And so the masked guy steps back into nothing, and I feel a second hand on the torch.

“You know, I think that guy did have a point. I was never good at letting go either.”

Michael tears the torch from my hand.

“It’s been a pleasure.”

