So you want to know how to relate to me? All right, then. I'll tell you how, in two easy steps.
First, you need to remember that my body's an instrument.
Second, you need to forget it.
You don't know what it means to me to sing. I understand that; you can't sing, and neither could your parents, or grandparents, unless there's a Reyvateil in your family line. But when you assume it's just something clever we do with our voices, a pretty frippery to amuse you, your ignorance cuts to the core. You write off the centre of our beings as a neat party trick, and expect us to feel complimented.
We don't. We never will.
Did you think the instruments woven into my hair, the images and patterns with which I adorn myself, were just there to enhance my attractiveness in your eyes? They're symbolic of what matters to me most in this world, of the act that defines, for me, who I am.
But you don't get to define me as that. If you understood what you were saying when you did, perhaps. But you don't. So let me enlighten you.
When I sing, I'm not just making noises with my vocal cords. Nor am I even just expressing my emotions, though that's a part of it, too. When I sing, my whole body resonates with an idea, an intent; a basal concept, like love, or longing. Interspersed throughout that are subtler highs and lows, nuanced turns of emotion and meaning that come together, like highlights and shadows, to paint a picture that I myself become. I
am the emotion, I
am the song, and I pour out my heart until I feel my insides are being turned out; until I feel the very boundaries of my body are melting away into sound waves, released into a swell of expression within which they alternately surge and drown. A drop of liquid in endless seas am I, with no seeming power to affect the whole, yet this ocean is made of nothing more than a million million such droplets, and my movements vibrate through them all as they vibrate through me, defining me as I define them. I know myself part of a seamless concordance, a vastness of motion and life.
When I sing, natural law shapes itself to my will. My whole body can float as if it were weightless; and you do not know what a release that can be, to escape the aching pull of gravity and drift as if I were no more than smoke or dust. My touch can crystallise water, or ignite tinder to flames, the very atoms of the universe gyrating or stilling as my mind and heart command. I can call down the brightest of energies into my body, flood my nerves with a blazing clarity that seems to strip every imperfection from my bones, sets my whole frame vibrating to a note so pure you would break down and cry just to hear it.
And in all of this, I am motion beyond containment, I am life beyond motion, I am alive beyond life; I am fused with a consciousness primordial, undying, and I exult in this as it strips away my ability to comprehend anything other than
nn, ma, fou, wee, was, rrha, a scale that rises within my heart and climaxes, not in anything so crude as an explosion of light, but in a swell of serenity that makes me feel stretched out across the universe a million miles wide.
This for me alights a consuming passion, a drive, a fire, a need. It's not a need like lust or hunger, nothing so simple, nothing so base; it's higher, brighter, stronger if possible, an inexorable pull towards a calling that encompasses far more than just my self. It is the heart of existence, singing in harmony with me; and not just me alone, but everyone, because we all vibrate the same at our cores. But still, when I feel it resonate with the very heart of my being, it feels as if the universe is singing just for my soul;
my soul!; can you imagine the wonder? It takes me into it and holds me dear, and I never want to leave. It is the beginning and end, the embodiment, of my world.
The very beginning and end.
I dream in sine waves, in square waves, in harmonic oscillations. When I sink into unconsciousness, the last thing to echo in the back of my mind is always, unfailingly, a rhythm.
I vibrate with song, with the need for song, every moment that I draw in breath. If I am not singing, my chest is always aching. At any moment, just because it pleases me, I could lift my voice in rapture; but I do not, because you would not understand. I do it alone, and I shudder and bite back tears, choking down my need for more. I would sing to you constantly if you would let me, surround your every waking moment in music's sweet caress, soothe your doubts and calm your fears. If it were for that pure expression, I would never want to stop.
But you take that wonder, that gift of my own heart, and cheapen it. You drown my natural emotions with artificial energy boosts that keep me from feeling my magic's release, leaving me frustrated and empty. You make me take crystals into my body to "strengthen my songs" that cause me agony, not caring that I wasn't born to sustain that level of intensity. You force me to sing for you, as you want, when you want it. And then I stop wanting to, because it doesn't feel the same any more. When the joy of singing, my deepest self-expression and my fullest offering to this world, is thus muted, the conflict rends my heart in two.
My song defines me, explains me, represents me to the universe. When you take that for granted, when you use it as your tool, how do you expect me to feel?
So yes, I want to sing. I want to sing often, and full-throatedly, and for as long as I like. But that doesn't mean I'll sing at your command. And if it does so happen that I want to sing for you, just for you, don't come to expect it of me. Cherish it, as you would any other gift. Don't try and force it out of me.
My body's an instrument. But that doesn't mean you can play.
From the author: Based on Pat Parker's powerful and challenging poem on race, For The White Person Who Wants To Know How To Be My Friend. It's a poem whose opening lines set up a most difficult dilemma for us: how do we respect and acknowledge the things that are different about a person's heritage, while not treating the person like they are their differences? I wanted to explore that idea, and along with it, the idea of how a Reyvateil might feel about the parts of themselves that are unique.
I'm not usually in the habit of writing original characters, but for Ar Tonelico I've written so many. The Reyvateil concept just lends itself to it so easily; I'm easily as fascinated with the concept in general as I am with specific characters, and I hope people who feel the same will enjoy these.
