Recently music has become about exercise for me. It’s hideous. I don’t even listen to it anymore – I just plug it in to my brain and use the beat to keep me going. In moments of reflection this makes me feel a bit sick. It’s not who I am. But I know I’ve been avoiding music, just like I’ve been avoiding something giant and looming and invisible. Some part of me is rotting when I’m not listening to music or singing. Why don’t I sing anymore?
It’s so easy to get caught up in all the hype and popularity. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to walk away. I crave “quiet all about me.”
I’m developed a sort of fear of the kitchen, cooking, food, shopping. I’m listening to my inner seventeen-year-old a little bit too carefully. She’s the one who taught me silence and self-control and tact. University taught me to forget her for three years. Maybe I shouldn’t welcome her back so readily but I envy her ability to write and marvel at everything, alienate people and not sleep.
“Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old and I need something to rely on.”
Somewhere Only We Know by Keane.