When I feel raw, pieces of me leave

i listen to music as a kind of medication. is that wrong? i suppose for me- music is life transforming. a song, cd, or an artist come into my life. it is always happenstance. i get entranced. something clicks and i have to seek them out, track them down, make them mine, repeat them until my heart breaks, my eyes leak, and my mind wanders. i turn the volume up until my ears are abused. the words thrash me up and down. legs with goose bumps. toes curl. eyes close in pleasure and pain. i fantasize.

how else would one listen to music? i guess to fill the silence- i can be accused of that for certain. to fill my mind, to just pass the time, to concentrate. but the music which takes a piece of my soul always is there as my drug. i become and addict for them and need them and yearn for them. amazingly and selfishly i steal that piece of my soul back, if even for a moment and i feel whole.

why else would music fill me with such dread, such passion, or such rage. the simplest song tips me over the edge and i cling to it for dear life. they trigger something in me, a reaction, an emotion.

most recently i have felt emotional. exposed. raw. rankled. despised. unadorned. ignored. but raw seems the most fitting. despite how happy my life may seem on the outside. i am exposed and vulnerable on the inside. anxiety, panic, and down right irrationality. i have painfully clear moments when i don't want to be me. and- i know i shouldn't think this about a lovely life.

i have a mix of songs (and books) which medicate and nurse my wounds. the holes are repaired, if briefly, by the burning presence of my beloved songs. they found me. they chose me knowing i needed them. they come in all forms and ways. mp3. cd. radio. cafe. class. movies. tv. they reach their wiry tendrils through the air waves to tickle my interest and beckon me to find them. they seduce me with the image of their creator, my own deity. i worship their genius to reach across time and space with their composition. they thrill me and kill me. i can't get enough of these sirens. how ever do i manage to forget them?....

they are cruel really. they fade like ghosts. shades. specters. they delight in my lack of grip. i eventually fall from them. it is only when i rediscover them that i feel transported back to my soul. those images of my life frozen in bits of soul burn still, even when they are unclear and damp with tears.

i always wanted to be a writer. famous. talented. no... i am intensely jealous. i feel that impassioned feeling of missing pieces of my soul in music. i think books do much the same. i am not audiophile. but books have also been faithful to me. and when i pick up a book and feel the author in my hands, speaking in my ear as i read- i hate them and love them. i am no musician and i accept that. but a writer? surely i could fill pages, as i am here. surely i could write complete sentences. could i bare my soul?

do i only take? take from the music, my beloveds. they deliver violent blows to my soul. i flog myself raw with their inflections, guitar strokes, and silences. what is it to write a book? direct a movie? i admit being jealous is hardly a reason to pursue these... do you call them occupations or callings? like a jealous lover, could i force myself to love them?

i'm jealous i haven't heard my call. i want to be an artist. creative. flamboyant. desirous. disastrous to others' souls. thrashing them about as they enjoy every second. beg for more. leave them torn open and naked. do they dance around joyously? weep with disgust in themselves? tear their soul back from my creation's grip?

i hope my dark visions are just that. visions. but i admit- if i could inflict upon others what one song does to me, i would die happy, complete, satiated. am i an artist? i'd never taken the idea seriously. does this qualify an artist, or does this paint me a fanatic?

whoever reads this, if ever reads this, if it is only a tiny byte on some dead and long gone obscure server... i want you to know my greatest desire in my life is to leave my imprint. what am i most afraid of? leaving in dead silence, having left no trace of impressionable existence, meaningful influence, revelational mission, devastating genius. a dead and dull silence from the peanut gallery. i am always the watcher- not the watched. no, i'm not afraid to be seen. i am afraid of being unseen. ending in my whimper. meaninglessness.

(see this site for song that make my cry, sing, and bare my sould raw)