I love music, I do…but let me let you in on a secret. I need it more than I want it. If I have no instrumental to drown out my thoughts there is cerebral echo. My thoughts don’t just speak, they yell and repeat in an annoying round like a song at a Girl Scout campfire. The music competes with the noise and wins eventually. My heart beats to baseline, my mind follows the melody. The harmony would be my conscience’s ad-libs.
I’ve been conditioned to genres. Heavy metal is my anger while jazz plays coy in the background when I’m shy. Yes, I have shy moments. Classical is the echelon of organized thought I seek to attain. It’s my precursor, my mentor, my intellectual prototype. I stride in salsa while breathing the blues.
Music is my security blanket and enabler. It’s the friend that passes me another shot knowing I’ve had enough. I throw it back to prove I’m not a lightweight. My ears flood, my speakers blow and my mind goes…
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