Don’t you wish to just consume some pieces of music – fuse them with your atoms and motives, so their intricate compositions infect your being thoroughly?
I’m unable to tether sound to memory. So that pretty sound you created yesterday? It unravelled itself from your elaborate arrangement and drifted away the moment you released it. All I was left with was a sense of you playing, the tenderness you put into it and of course, the memory of finding it enchanting – this intimate drama of you, your softly flitting fingers and the prettiness of the sound – you created such a moment of magic. This will stay with me. Not the music.
To emerge from the safe shallow silence of ignorance into a world of music is bewildering. It is alarming. It is frightening. It is, possibly, also liberating.
You have no idea how defenceless I am, do you?
With your fucking crotchets and quavers and your sixteenth fucking notes, you wield your melodies and rhythms with impunity while I cower in cold spots, my skin hanging off me in bags, collecting sweaty pools of incompetence.
I would relinquish a few words, about 250 grams of precious punctuation plus an inch of grammar to be able to sing mellifluously to the beat of your flawless rhythm, sweet merry music maker.
Music can make you write pretentious things without shame. It is that classy and irreverent.