Music

If you know me, it goes without saying that I absolutely love music. There is some undefinable, ineffable quality that reaches into your heart and pulls its strings down to greater depths - whether these depths are fathoms of ecstacy, sorrow, or anything in between.

And now, for something peculiar (or not) - for a long time (but especially during my fresher and more vulnerable college years), my favorite songs were gentle, soothing, beautiful, delicate melodies; the kind that sounds like a flower wilting.

Or an exquisite porcelain doll slipping to the floor.

Or even a dark, giant, empty concert hall.


Then something clicked, and my feet fell into step with a different rhythm.

I don't know if I lost character with this change. I almost feel as if I had anti-matured, had numbed something, threw out the wilting flowers and used the vase as a champagne flute.

It has become enormously difficult to resuscitate those fragile feelings, and even when they should be there, they aren't. Once you lock something into the trunk of a broken limousine and toss the (piano) key, it can be hard to get it back.