A few decades have passed by since I last heard that kinda ‘music’ (if at all, I can call it music).

As an adolescent my sense of music was rock-bottom in the truest sense. My mom used to yell her lungs out, with her incessant rants “switch it off, will you? These ain’t music, these are people squawking, howling.”

How I’d detested her then, only to find myself lost in the utopian future. 𝐼’𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝐼 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑤𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑’𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑠, I’d mutter under my breath with unyielding resolve. But then time passes and everything assumes new significance. That same thing that felt possible a while back, now it makes no sense.

A few decades later, now when I listen to such nauseating songs being played at home, every organ of my body starts to revolt. Loving bonds become inaccessible and I repeat history. 𝑆𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓𝑓, 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢? 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑛’𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑐, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑤𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔, ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔. I yell, with sheer indignation plastered on my face.

All of a sudden, I hear vexatious Karma whispering “I was hoping we could carry on where we left off”. A feeling of Deja Vu sneaks within me.

Author’s Note: The above story is a winning entry for a contest that required to write a piece of prose/poetry in which past, present and future come together.