If I had to choose one word, one word to tell the story of my life and every one of my dreams and ambitions, that word would be opera.

Opera is my life force; it is the blood that runs through my veins and feeds my hungry heart. It propels me into worlds of adventure, murder, infidelity, romance, intrigue. When I listen to opera, the world is no longer filled with hardship and grief, but overflowing with undying beauty. And when I sing, heaven beams light and love upon me, and my heart is set free.

Most people my age scorn opera and condemn it for being in another language, or, for some petty, ignorant reason, not being cool enough; they do not understand. But I say that opera can transcend any boundary placed in front of it and touch the hearts of even the sourest critics; emotion knows no language.

Because of my hectic schedule, my nights rarely hold any time for self-reflection or personal mental gratification. I am usually consumed by work, my eyes fixated on a computer screen for hours on end researching Shays' Rebellion for APUSH (AP U.S. History), learning the intricacies of the ever-changing English language, or coloring emission spectrums for chemistry. But every now and then, in moments of spontaneity and irresponsibility (or is it maturity?), I put aside my bagatelles of trivial text and flowery notebooks in search of something of real meaning to me. Today is one of those times.

My feet carry me to my bedroom, my sanctuary; a place of pensive contemplation, of natural frivolity, of teenaged moments, of lapsed judgments and self-discoveries. A place where Claude Monet's spirit lives eternally on my walls, and Lucille Ball's comedic legend is enshrined on my dresser.

My eye scans the room; it catches a glimpse of a red and brown cover hidden underneath a pile of returned APUSH notes and old assignments from trig. Its golden surface glimmers in the sunlight, and I recognize the book immediately: the timeless tale of ill-fated lovers in romantic times of surging chords and dramatic climaxes. My La Bohéme score resurfaces, and takes its rightful place in my arms. It is a mess, having come through the Northridge earthquake: pages stuck together, crinkled notes and discolored music staffs from water stains, the binding barely holding on. But once this poor, forsaken book is opened, such ethereal passion and joy resounds as cannot be compared to any other wonder in this world. I would not trade it for anything.

My fingers caress the book, the tips running along the slick cover and split edges, the decrepit binding and frayed shell. It used to belong to my singing teacher, but she gave it to me once she realized how much I longed for it. Its appearance did not matter-only that it was mine. I can tell it had been loved before; stage directions and penciled tempos are littered throughout the music, with breath marks that are wary of hiding the perfectly sculpted notes. Carefully, with almost a sense of piety, I open the score; it falls to page 68, Rodolfo's gorgeous aria, "Che Gelida Manina." Ah, such beauty was never written like this. The mellifluous tune swirls round in my head as a sensuous whirlpool, growing in power until I can take it no more: I must hear Roberto Alagna sing this masterpiece.

Frantically, I search through my collection of classical CDs, hoping to find the one I want, the one I need. I empty the CD player of Bernstein's "West Side Story" and place in my favorite disc, The Opera Album . It is track number 5. I close my eyes. The first note: A flat . So calming, so soothing, it literally takes my breath away. Instantly, all my worldly concerns are thrown to the wind and I am immersed in a musical serenity, a peace beyond comprehension. I forget about my insecurities, my imperfections, my faults: all the earthly hindrances that plague me, and I am enveloped by the unbridled beauty of Puccini. I become so entranced that suddenly, I am pulled from beside my bed of water lilies and irises, taken from this world, and set into 1830s Paris, where Rodolfo stands holding my hand in the cold of winter, talking of the moonlight and gazing into the gentle glances of my eyes. I am Mimì, his true love.

This sensation is not new to me. As Carmen, I have felt the cold stab of a knife in my back from my jealous, half-crazed lover, Don José. I have hurled myself off a parapet as Tosca, screaming revenge in the courts of heaven against Scarpia, who slay my beloved. As in the insane Lucia di Lammermoor, I have stained my wedding dress red with the blood of my dead husband, killed by my hand. As Madame Butterfly, I have waited fearless, with faith unshaken, for my true love to return to me, tienti la tua paura, io con sicura fede l'aspetto! , only to find that he has married another. Con onor muore/Chi non può serbar vita con onore : Death with honor is better than life without it. Each sensation is stronger than the next, encompassing my every emotion and awakening every excitement within me. I live their lives; I become them.

Today, I am Mimì, the ill, forlorn young seamstress with a pale face and a loving smile who sits silently listening to Rodolfo's heartfelt introduction. I return with my own life story of scentless flowers and the rise of spring; we realize we are in love. Later, I watch as the coquettish Musetta touts her sexuality in front of Marcello and I promise to never treat my lover with such disrespect. I cling to Rodolfo's protecting arms as we sing of eternal love and evening breezes, even as the sun sets on my life. Sickness means we must part in springtime, but oh! a desperate wish! if only winter would last forever, vorrei che eterno duras se il verno, spring would never come. I am dying next to Rodolfo, quietly ending my life at a pianissississimo with the orchestra. Peacefully, without consent, I die.

Unwilling, I return to the confines of my bedroom; my place of freedom and individuality has become a jail cell. The water stains the last page of the score as would blood, its texture unforgiving, its wounded appearance shrewd, relentless. Parts of the page are shredded, like Rodolfo's fiery heart at the loss of his precious Mimì, at the loss of me. I wonder to myself, as I wipe away a tear, if I died, if anyone would miss me. I close the score and stare at the sanguineous back cover in mortification. Why must I be returned to this brutal world of responsibility and ugliness? Why can't I remain as Mimì forever, reliving my everlasting love with Rodolfo? My thoughts race in my head as I struggle to come to grips with reality.

At last, after finally acknowledging the hopelessness of the situation, I stop to catch my breath, regain my composure, and prepare myself to step back into the world in which I was born. But the world in which I belong remains on my window seat, inside a tattered red and brown cover.