When The Music Dies

Music has always been my connection to the world, first as a way to understand and mimic the emotions I didn't think I could feel, then as a conduit through which I could express the thoughts I didn't think I could share. Music let me say things I could not otherwise voice, serving as a therapist who understood how to read into the metaphors that couched my honesty. That is what music was at its core; honest. My favorite songs and albums were as much about how the mood and tone echoed in my body as they were about the actual chord and note choices.

Music was a rare source of pride. When I felt like I had accomplished nothing else, the songs I was writing were there for me. As I learned how to turn my thoughts into poetry, and let them escape through a flow of 'notes', the songs gave me a sense of peace, and stopped the existential questioning of my mind. The feeling of emptiness that usually fills me would slough away, replaced with a contentment that would not last, but would keep me motivated to find the next moment.

Those songs were written for me. I had no aspirations of making anything of them, because the idea of attention was, rather ironically, off-putting.

Everything changed when I figured out how functionally tone deaf I actually am. Twenty years of strumming a guitar should have told me this, since I struggled to identify even the simplest of chords when I heard them. Songs I listen to are tuned noise whose theory is as incomprehensible as the idea of God. While some will hear a song and immediately analyze the banality of a chord progression, I am completely in the dark.

I never thought I was much of a singer, but I was not prepared to learn that not only could I not sing a note, I couldn't even tell how far from the truth I was. No longer was I fighting the ideal voice I heard in my head, I was now fighting not to humiliate myself every time I opened my mouth. It was too much, and it led me on a pursuit that has caused almost nothing but depression for the last two years.

After that revelation, humming the songs to myself became uncomfortable, then painful. Now, even the thought of singing stirs those feelings of depression, because I can't forget everything I have learned. The idea of writing new songs has become impossible, because I can't keep hurting myself that way. Even playing in my head, every song is a disappointing reminder that I will never be the person I have spent so long wanting to be.

With that, I have found myself growing distant from all music. New albums don't stir my emotions like they once did, new songs don't spark my imagination to novel thoughts anymore. Music is enjoyable, but it no longer feels important in the same way.

That terrifies me. I have already seen my sense of self dissolve, and having lost that, I don't know what else I can afford to lose. Music feels like it is slipping away from me, and I don't know how to stop that.

There are times I look at the pile of papers my songs are scrawled on, and I wonder what it would feel like to watch them burn...