Edit: holy shit. sorry for the wall 'o text. carry on, everyone. nothing to see here.
Surreal mindtrip just happened. I think these are the moments that make humans feel spiritual. I'm crying as I write this, without really knowing why. I'm not the 'crying' kind of sad. It's deeper than that.
Here I am, in north Los Angeles, just past midnight, windows open. Frogs croaking. Pretty peaceful. I can't sleep, which is somewhat normal, so I'm just getting some work done. Then the croaks suddenly cease, as they often do, most likely to hide from a passing predator. However, shortly after the frogs stop, some very forlorn japanese koto music starts playing, with piano backup. It's quite... odd, but nerve-shatteringly melancholy.
However, it triggered the most startlingly vivid flashback I'd ever had.
I was in a sleeping bag, on top of a boulder, in Joshua Tree national park. Come to think of it, it was probably around this day and time two years ago. It was probably one of the most peaceful, serene, meaningful moments of my life. The stars were... unreal. The soft, gray-yellow band of the milky way cut the jewel-studded sky in two. It was perfectly quiet, the air was clean, temperature was perfect. Everything was perfect. Also in the sleeping bag was a very close female friend. Although I can't hide from the fact that... certain things went on, that was merely a side activity from our hours that we spent just talking about things. People, events, the stars, the universe - she was absolutely brilliant, by far smartest person I've ever met. She'd say the same about me, but to this day I'll never know if she was simply trying to make me feel less tiny beside her.
At one point that night, she paused in her conversation. Out of the silent, windless desert drifted music. Forlorn, sad music that was too faint to identify, but it sounded distinctly asian in melody. The same song I just heard coming through my window. The strange part was that, for all I could tell, we were alone in the desert. No human beings for twenty miles, at least. And, from the vantage point on our little hill, no lights or campfires I could see in all directions. When I got up to check, she asked me what I was doing, and I replied "Trying to see where that music's coming from". She asked, "What music?". Her hearing is as good as mine, and she didn't hear a damn thing. I didn't think much of it, she might have just tuned it out or something - and sat back down. The music faded shortly after that.
A few weeks later, she passed away. To this day, I don't know why. Both our parents were fairly disapproving of this relationship, and she didn't have any friends I knew of. I couldn't simply walk up to the parents and ask. (Perhaps it's best I don't know, considering we met as ward-mates in a guarded E.R. room, reserved for people who just attempted suicide.). When she was in the hospital, shortly before her death, I attempted to visit her. Of course, it didn't go well, but while idling in the waiting room, I was struck by a particular song that came over the speakers. A sad, emotion-packed song of what appeared to be japanese music, with what sounded like a piano backup. The same song.
Now, I'm not a believer in spirituality. Many would argue that this is some evidence for it. My education on psychology tells me that my brain is simply playing tricks on me, forging memories and making neuron connections where there shouldn't be any. However, every time I heard that song, including just now, it made me sad. I cried, even if I was not in a crying mood at the moment I heard it. I'm over the memories of what happened. I couldn't cry if I thought about her death right now. But, if I think about that song, it all comes back.
Brains are weird.