In which the songs sing for me.
It’s an interesting night, y’all. End of a good weekend, start of a very busy but exciting week, ‘rest’ day from my workouts — which means a break from my anti-jillian michaels invective — with decisions to make, lemon water to drink, fancy new earrings to wear and a new batch of stress-relieving baked goods to plan.
But I seem to be teetering on the edge of mopey, avoiding cranky with a mini ice-cream sammie, side-stepping pissy with a shiny new headband, walking on eggshells over sad with the promise of an early night’s sleep.
I stopped listening to music a little over a year ago. Before then, tunes were ubiquitous in my life. Music played while I studied, read, worked, bathed, fucked. Songs sang as I cooked, talked, makeup-ed, drank. Tunes blared while I wrote, sewed, flossed, cleaned.
I should have noticed the change, the day or days when it no longer occurred to me to turn it on. But I didn’t. Even after I began to hear the silence as music-free, specifically, I didn’t do anything to change it.
Nor did I notice when I couldn’t seem to get enough sleep, started to forget the simplest things, began to ache for no reason, found my shoulders always tense, if only because I never felt them unclench.
I’d been through it before, and worse. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.
But it was. And still is.
Yet while I still face beast of depression, I choose to bring back my music. The following are a few songs from an earlier time, songs I saw performed live over and over, songs I’ve listened to on the first burned CDs, songs I’ve performed with old friends, time and again, for health, happiness, cheer — and sometimes prizes.
I come back to them when I realize there’s no music playing, and they give me back my notes.