Unheard memories

Music takes up more space than we realize. It lives below the surface of our day-to-day affairs, comfortably settling in the background of the experiences that define us.

Anyone who has experienced gazing out of the UV Express window recognizes the Air Supply discography. The song “Para Sa Akin” serves as the unofficial cue to head to the buffet table at many a wedding reception. In moments of heartbreak, it is through drowning in mellow tunes or skipping songs that remind us of our past lovers. While the songs that make up the soundtrack of our lives vary from person to person, their impact in adorning our memories is undeniable.

All my life, it seemed as though all of my experiences—no matter how mundane or pivotal—had specific songs to serve as background music. For instance, my childhood Sundays were embellished with bossa nova beats. While my mother swapped out week-old curtains for freshly washed ones, the rays of the warm morning sun served as the spotlight for the grains of dust floating through the air. As a child, I marveled at how they seemed to dance along to the soothing voice of Sitti. Eventually, the day would turn to night, and Mama (carrying the ever-comforting scent of warm vanilla) would tuck me in as she hummed the Carpenter’s “I Won’t Last a Day Without You” to lull me to sleep.

My teenage years were not spared from music, too. At 11, I giggled with my classmates as we listened to One Direction’s first full album—jokingly staking a claim on the members as their parts came on. At 17, SZA’s alternative R&B tracks played in my ears as I stepped into university for the first time. Exciting times they were, having to face the world on my own. I started to develop my own identity and, with that, experiences and interests that I could truly call mine. Before I knew it, music began to rise to the forefront of my encounters as a young girl getting to know herself. At the end of each day, as I walked through the streets of Los Baños, songs I believed resonated with my experiences would accompany me home.

Slowly, I continued to mature and cross the boundaries between my youth and the beginnings of my life as an independent adult. It was a period in my life where change was undeniably taking place, whether I liked it or not. The future became a more prominent topic than the present, and I became, to put it simply, a mess. I was unprepared. I was unsettled and overwhelmed. Study sessions were neglected, breaks were spent alone, and trips eventually became a memory and nothing more. And at the end of each day, as I walked through the streets of Los Baños, the songs I believed would resonate with my experiences were no longer enough to settle my thoughts.

So my nights were spent in silence. It felt like a betrayal of some sort. As though the only thing that could shoulder the burden of my thoughts had abandoned me to deal with them alone. In the same way, I felt like I wasn’t giving the music a chance to enhance my reality anymore.

Maybe it was the looming weight of adulthood or the specks of dust floating through the air that urged me to do what I did next. With the feeling of uncertainty increasing, I desperately wanted to feel like a child again. And so, I played some Sitti. And to the sunny and refreshing beat of her music, I cried. Hard. It was as though I had gained unrestricted access to the space my inner child had locked herself in, and spent the duration of Sitti’s whole discography healing her.

Before then, I had always thought that music existed to complement the experiences that define who we are. It had always been something you could access and take with you through every moment of your life. But that bizarre combination of bossa nova, snot, and tears served as the trigger to an epiphany.

Music, for the longest time, did not serve to settle in the background of my memories. Instead, it helped to save them. As we enjoy the melodies that course through our ears, we do not simply listen. Instead, whether deliberate or not, we document our feelings and thoughts through songs; indefinitely storing them to return to at any point in the future.

It’s been years since that moment, and I’m doing reasonably well for a woman guessing her way through life. I’m on the last leg of my journey in university, holding leadership positions in the organization I consider family and enjoying mundanity with a partner that makes me happy. While there are still uncertainties beyond my understanding, one thing remains the same: I end each day with music to guide me home. And as I walk through the streets of Los Baños, Sitti sometimes finds her way to accompany me. When the sunny and refreshing beat of her music fades in, I suddenly become the child watching her mother fluff the curtains, the teenager as lost as ever, and the woman thanking them both.

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Francine Gilliane A. Ardiente, 21, is a communication arts student at the University of the Philippines Los Baños.