Work Text:
Why do people make things?
Beat stared blankly out of the window of her apartment, the place still as unkempt as she was, a guitar pick caught between her front teeth. She had been released from the hospital days ago, her sister checking in every now and then with her path to recovery, yet all Beat could think about was that other world. The faces of people who felt real, sounded real, were real with her.
Yet the one thing that stuck in her mind, beyond that smile from Quaver, was Penny. Well, Sforzando. Why her of all people? The person she punched the shit out of, the smug scientist who was baffled by the nothing-ness of her, the piece of shit who had zero regrets and threatened to shoot her.
She felt her jaw clench tighter around the pick, threatening to split it in two, with just the sheer thought of that bitch slipping back into the forefront of her mind. In front of people she actually liked remembering. Quaver's joy and optimism, Treble's honest but earnest and well-meaning words, Clef being- well, Clef. But no, it was somehow, someway, stuck on Sforzando.
But the question continued to ring, reverberating like a string on a guitar, just waiting to be answered and finally closed.
Because they feel like it.
"I wasn't wrong." Beat grumbled, taking the pick out of her mouth, as she scanned over her rough composition.
But why do they feel like it?
Beat's fingers shifted up the neck of her instrument, aligning themselves comfortably along the strings, steading herself as she took in a deep breath and began to strum. The acoustic guitar began to fill the space where bird calls and the soft hum of a fan once dwelled, the notes flowing freely despite the rigidity of following the messy scribbles on lined paper.
It was second nature. The movement of her digits across the frets, softly singing the lyrics as she went, where she wanted to be. Her hair drifting down as she lowered her gaze, soon drifting away from the sheet, whatever sounded good with what was all she really cared about now.
Look at all the trouble we're going through for basically nothing, right?
Beat paused. "Ach, no, that note didn't sound right." She muttered, repeating the last notes she did while searching for the right fit.
Each one sounded wrong, discordant, for a while at least. Up until she found one that felt right, scribbled it down along with what she remembered, and looked over the song once more. There was a lot of work going into this, not even to get a tangible reward, just to have something made. Why did there have to be a reward for making it?
Beat turned her attention away from the paper once more, looking out the window, as if trying to search for an answer. All businesses cared for was results, physical results, clear evidence that there was a benefit to doing what you did. No passion, no drive for doing something to do it, just a need to know that money and effort wasn't wasted.
Was that really something someone should even link to art? Why would a chef season up a meal and worry about the plating if all that mattered was to be fed? Why would an artist paint something if only to have it on display for themselves? Why would an author write a story if all that mattered was having it be sold?
It was rigid, corporate, it wasn't art. It lacked a soul if all that mattered was results. Obviously you'd want someone, anyone, to connect with it. To like it, to love it, to cherish it as much as you do. But if all that mattered was results, why would you care for it to be liked? Why would you be annoyed if it was hated? The artist, themselves, is so intertwined with their work that focusing on the results of what you made feels wrong- no. It is wrong. Sforzando's thinking is wrong.
She was so worried about the process, the restrictions, everything that seemed to halt art that she needed to find some reason that people wanted to create when the results didn't justify the means.
Beat's brow furrowed at the thought, eyebrow almost twitching as she sat in silence, formulating her own feelings on it. Seven years different, seven years better, the answer somehow still felt the same. People wanted to make it because-
-They feel like it.
Beat closed her eyes, letting her heartbeat steady herself and be her metronome, as her fingers began to dance across the strings once more.
Why do people like stories? Good stories, mid stories, broken and bad stories? Why do people like when the sun hits their skin on a cold day, the breeze running through their hair on a sunny afternoon while their bike straddles a fine line of gravel and grass, when the warmth of a hot drink fills their core? Why do people fall in love? Making things is like that.
You don't need to find a reason to love someone unconditionally, you just do. You don't need a reason to be who you are, you just are. It's feeling. It's feeling out what feels right, what speaks to you, what you want to do. Who gives a shit if it's just me who listens to it, if just me and my sister enjoy it, I made it. I made it because I wanted to and if others can feel me through the the chords, even better.
Art is like-
Beat paused, letting out a huff as another abrupt note caught her off-guard, letting out a deep sigh as she continued forward.
-Art is like a language. You don't have to speak it but you can feel me. All of the work is to just make people feel. Feel like making something, feel their own experiences, feel like me. You make it to express the core of who you are to the world when words alone just don't cut it. If anyone tries to shut you down? You keep doing it to make them shut the hell up.
A soft knock at the door broke the concentration once again. Beat lifted her head, a few off-key notes breaking the melody she had accidentally - yet instictually - placed. "Hey Beat? Sorry to interrupt your session, just… wanted to check in on you."
Beat sighed, leaning back against the wall, before setting her guitar aside. A small smile crept on her face. "All good, think I needed a break honestly." Beat called back, pulling herself up, and to her feet.
It didn't matter how fast that journey went, all that matters was that one foot was in front of the other, and the destination would be just as sweet - if not sweeter - when they made it. That's why people like love stories, right?
Making music isn't exactly a love story but-
-aren't all good stories written with love?