I have this theory that music is more subtle and yet more dangerous than written words. We all know the power of the word, it’s ability to get inside your head, reprogramming your brain and changing who you are at the core. Fortunately, we have to actively choose to let the words in. We have to engage them and bring them to ourselves.
Music isn’t like that. Music hunts us. It haunts us.
I’ve been dealing with some things lately in my personal life, things having to do with a lady. It was a relationship that was going pretty well, and then out of no where was blind sided in ways that I’d rather not care to talk about on the internet. Some wounds are just to fresh to go throwing around to the world at large. Let’s just say that the fun, happy part of it ended very abruptly and the psychotic drama part of the relationship is more akin to a vampire than any glittering Seattlite.
The entire situation has put my mind on a steady, disjointed path of anger, regret and turmoil. It hasn’t been a pleasant experience. It’s not a good end to my first foray back into the dating world since my marriage ended. It wasn’t something that encouraged me to get back out there and try again, and it just keeps haunting me.
I know that I’ve made the right decisions for myself, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t carry with them a certain amount of pain. I was in a relationship that I thought was a happy one. I found out that this was not truly the case, and it was my fault.
It’s never easy to be the person that shoulders the blame for a bad situation. Guilt is a sharp, agonizingly jagged blade that breaks off bits of itself inside of you as it is thrust in, adding it’s bulk and weight to your own. It becomes a burden that you can never properly put down. You can’t leave it behind you. It cannot be exhumed by anything shy of the works of the most masterful mental surgeon.
There is the problem, really, because those painful shards of guilt become nodes inside your mind, and music becomes an avid miner, digging tunnels until it can cling on to one of those nodes, polish it up to make it shine with the creative sadism of hindsight and bring it all rushing back up to the surface. It trades the guilt for a new permanent home inside your psyche. It pollutes your blood with the filth of the strip mine.
It leaves very little left of you.
What makes music even more dangerous?
It comes to you.
It plays in the backgrounds of life and catches you when you least expect it to.