I have always wondered what music would sound like. From what I’ve read, music can be light, soft and airy or hard and loud. I have asked many people to describe to me in words what music is like. Each and everyone of them gives me a different answer. Some describes it as a part of everyday life and others think of music as something beautiful that can bring peace to your soul or make you happy. And yet some see music as a disturbance of the peace and quiet.

So which is it? I do not know. I have yet to draw my own conclusions as I have never in my 17 years of life, heard music before. Strange, you say? There is a simple reason for that: I am deaf. I have been since the day I was born.

My parents at first didn’t understand why I didn’t respond to sound, only to movements. So they took me to a specialist and found out that I lacked a certain something in my ear that enabled me to change sound waves to signals that could be sent to the brain.

They were, of course very disappointed. I was their first child and I wasn’t perfect. They were never lacking in their affection, though and for that I am very grateful. But sometimes, I could sense that I wasn’t what they wanted. It wasn’t as if they treated me badly, if anything, it was the other way around. Everything I wanted I could have. It was that kind of life, but sometimes small things like a shake of the head or a sigh whenever they looked at me would make me realize that I could never be the child of their dreams.

I didn’t know this at first, but I as I grew older I noticed that my mother would turn sad eyes on me and my father’s lips would thin into a line. My grandparents were worse. They totally refused to pay any attention to me. It was as if I was never there. As a child, I never could understand why grandpapa refused to look at me or why grandmamma didn’t touch me. Until one morning when I went into the kitchen and saw my parents having a row with my grandparents.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying but nevertheless I could guess. The moment I appeared into the kitchen, my grandfather gestured at me angrily, banging the table and pointing out the window. At ten, I was old enough to guess when I wasn’t wanted.

Two days later, we moved out of the house. I was sent to a special school where I could learn how to read, write and communicate with the outside world. Before this, it was just hand signals and sometimes, lip-reading. I studied the normal subjects that average kids learn in school, albeit slower and slightly different.

Then I found out how to express myself on paper at age 13. From then on, my world changed. I found something that my parents were proud of: my writing. I read a lot and so day by day, my skills with the pen improved. I sent my essays for competitions, some of which I have won. I write stories and I usually give them to my friends to read and ask them for feedback.

Not all of them were good though, some were boring and some just too monotonous, but most of them were averagely good. The latest story I started was about a girl in a fantasy world whose village got burned down and seeks revenge. I haven’t written much yet, with SPM coming around and all that, but hopefully I shall be able to continue it during the long holiday and maybe publish it someday. Who knows, maybe I might be as rich as J. K. Rowling someday.

As for my greatest gift, it would be the gift of words.