Life Inside The Music Box,Bracha Goykadosh

Life inside the music box ain't easy.

But somehow, we all keep dancing the same steps to that familiar, tinkly ditty. And although we would rather fly away to the music on our own wings, forever we dance until we become old, rusty and basically broken.

That is because we are stuck in the music box. We figurines cannot get out on our own. We have been programmed to dance as soon as the music box opens, as soon as the music begins playing, and if some whacked kid has OCD and considers it her ultimate life's mission to keep opening and closing the music box, then, unfortunately the music will begin playing and then stop. And begin playing. And then stop. And then begin playing. And then stop. Play. Stop. Play. Stop. Play. Play. Play. Stop. Play. Stop. Stop. Stop!

We exhausted figurines spring to life and then fall back dead so easily, we wonder if we ever really alive to begin with? Or is life merely an illusion? Is it what we imagine it to be?

Finally, the child decides to "quit fooling around with that wretched music box" and lets us glassy figurines dance to the music. We waltz, we tap-dance and we razzle-dazzle our wide-eyed four-year-old audience, but she doesn't understand that we have been programmed to take these steps. We don't know why we do them. We don't know the difference between pirouettes and rond de jambe. All we know is that the music is playing and that we are dancing because that is what we are supposed to be doing. We don't understand the dance, nor do we know the steps. They just happen. We can just do them.

And then she gets bored, or sees a butterfly she has to chase or a dog's tail she has to pull, she shuts the music box with a resounding slam and we tired figurines drop down dead in the dusty dark. It is in those moments, that we are unsure whether we hear the music. If everything really happened or we just imagined it. In the dark, it is easy to tell ourselves that it was just a dream. It is easy to lull ourselves back to sleep. In the dark, we sit against the walls of the music box, our legs outstretched and our faces expressionless. We vow that next time, we won't get up and dance to that music. But sure enough, the box swings open a short while later, and we blink, startled by the cold light of day, and jump up into our positions, frustrated by our own self-resistance, our compliance to this "thing" that we cannot understand, but yet cannot detach ourselves from.

We figurines dance when the music is playing and then when the music box closes, we crumple. And we become so used to dancing to the music, that we cannot imagine our life without it. It consumes our thoughts. Until, we are the music. And there is nothing else. And then, we empty figures dance and dance and dance and dance.

Until one day, the music no longer plays.

The music box breaks. And we are still fine. It is only the music that has died! But for some reason, we can no longer dance, we no longer recognize ourselves. What are we if not dancers? What were we before then? What will be after then? And we, mere figurines, die then too.

Because we realize we are only the dancers-not the music makers.

And that is the greatest tragedy.

bgoykadosh@gmail.com

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Life Inside The Music Box , Bracha Goykadosh