Someone Else's Legacy.

I was once heavy into the music scene. I sang, wrote songs, and performed in smoke filled venues with fellow musicians. I served as a sounding board for some. A muse for others. At the time, I had not quite absorbed the magnitude of my own ability to make an impact on the life of another individual. I was open with my heart and free with my stories and laughter. I suppose this is a blessing, and a curse.

I floated along boldly, with purpose. My purpose being, to exist as my most honest and authentic self. And I did. I was open and unabashedly real while writing with others. My writings were not those of an individual who cared what may be interpreted by another mind or heart. Critics were welcomed to say how they felt. My only care was my own analysis of the current state of my heart. Of my personal thoughts. Of my own mind and what I could do to change the things I critiqued that directly effected my own life. I am the one who must exist in this skin. It has always been up to me to better the soul that exists within. 

My memories and snapshots of such tiny particles. The ones that make up all of who I am now. The choices I have made to remedy the past moments that brightened me or broke me. The pieces I picked up and re-framed. Crafted into a present day that would never exist had I not lived through those moments. 

I rarely revisit those places. 

Sometimes in prayer, God reminds me of something He has guided me through and I am always filled with gratitude for such times. They were my guideposts. My turning points. Sometimes, they were my red flags. 

As I found myself surrounded by fellow musicians, songs began being written and performed about me. About my current situation, at whatever moment in time was framed by another individual. An “artist” who made my story their own. They composed their personal version and set it to their own melody. Spun my reality into something they now possess, and still, to this day, sing it to crowds of strangers who will never know my story. Only the version they hear repeated.

One such song was composed, without my permission, at a time in my life that I would never have chosen to immortalize. But still, the words continue to float throughout rooms and time and space, creating this whole separate life for someone I no longer know. It is their most downloaded song, to date. It is requested, regularly. It touches people who may never actually understand what it even means. Or ever even meant. It was dirtied and written to fit a narrative that never was. Perhaps to this individual, but never to me. 

For me? It is a still-frame from my memory bank. A moment I remedied and fondly conquered. A situation I never permitted to even be shared, is used as monetary gain for someone who only remembers a perception of a story heard from a free spirited girl, just passing through. A story that unfolded so many lifetimes ago.

I would be lying if I said this wasn’t an uncomfortable position to be in. 

And I have held this inside for so very long, not knowing how to handle it. How to feel. 

Until this morning when my prayers led me to question what my legacy is today, and God reminded me of all the many things we have been through together. 

If anything, this is the opposite of my legacy. On the contrary. It was taken and made into their own. He has carried a snapshot of my own past misfortunes into his own present day routine. Night after night, this story leaves his lips in the form of a song and floods the emptiness of venues, playing into the ears of those who decide to listen and interpret it. To perhaps make it their own. 

It is what this individual is known for. 
Her.

Ya know? That girl who went through hell over a decade ago? 

This musician has written her into his present day. He carries her in a guitar case and sings passionately about her plight. He depends upon her pain and holds her teardrops in a jar labeled “tips”. Her ghost lives on in his fingertips as he forces her skeleton to dance along on his nightly playlist. He has to keep her alive because all of his own stories are unremarkable and played out. 

She is his legacy. 

Her story is what he is remembered by. He pays his rent with the echoes of her pain, all the while lying to himself about some rewritten version of him ever being anything close to her hero. 

I have lost count of the times I have entertained the idea of asking him to retire that particular song. A skeleton of the past that never should have existed... But all these years later, I can only pity the emptiness that must live on in that person. She will never be my legacy.

My legacy today is eons away from this distant chapter of my life. That girl ceased to exist a long time ago. God showed her which new path to take, and while stretching her hands to the Heavens, smiling through tears and praising the new sunrises, she was resurrected.

Today, I am grateful for my legacy. I am proud of it. It is my own. 

My song to sing. 

My own melody. 

And it is beautiful.