An evening, eleven and four minutes on a Saturday, everyone has plans. I am wide awake to post-rock on deck, that leads me to ask who these people are and how their limbic systems matured. How I even thought of that, I don’t recall. So the internet, as so many of us have treated it, will live for the lonely and so I ask Google what I thought. It takes me down a trail of scientific studies and ultimately one, linked rock music to depression. I snubbed the factual accuracy and hated how it failed to note what specific genre of rock it applied to the experiment, as if it was my primary source of inclination to read through. I also hardly believed my representation to the experimental group of mice. Nonetheless in print, it said, mice that listened insatiably to an unmentioned rock group for three weeks, cannot find the cheese that they were skilled to search for initially. They had no direction, groped through the walls, while their classical or silence tested counterparts smoothly navigated the maze. The study stated that hippocampal damage was evident, noting significantly also the frontal lobe shrinkage of the now memory and reasoning handicapped, hungry mouse. It slyly concluded that the right kind of people must have listened to the right kind of music in their earlier years.

Suddenly my mobile phone rings and I lower the music player volume. My mother’s voice resonates from the receiving end but the words were incomprehensible and strangely melodious with the songs I had playing. As if a message was being sent as an extraterrestrial song, something we could not understand in the mind, but the heart alluringly takes comfort in. Recoiling on the sofa, I say “alright, ok” which is the safest answer to a situation like this. She hangs up, her credits lost in gain of the communications network provider. The clock reads eleven and forty-five minutes into another Saturday evening, and naturally, my eyes shifted to the humble computer screen.

What was I doing again?


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