My long drives, my happiest days and my nights in complete sorrow are often spent in silence.
I’ve always romanticized the idea of listening to music in order to heighten my emotions or externalize them but that’s as effective as trying to push a wall through a mountain.
Music, as beautiful as it is, has never been more than a story — someone else’s story, someone else’s words, not mine. As much as I try to relate to it I can’t. It’s a barrier. It drains me. Music dependency syndrome — I hope that’s not a thing — sounds like a luxury because I truly envy anyone who can listen to a song and feel something — anything. I feel nothing but my own feelings being shut down by someone else’s words.
I’m truly envious of those who resort to music. It’s their backbone, their remedy, their pillar of hope and happiness. They can turn to it so easily because they know it’s watching over them, narrating their life.
Silence is my muse, as they say. It reaches out to me and revives my very core, waking my senses, allowing me to survive. My feelings are a burden I have to put into words. Unwritten thoughts are a heaviness I carry and I can’t think anymore, I can’t sleep anymore, I can’t function. Even my happiest moments are spent in silence, smiling, watching the world around me. I can’t speak, I just think about the words I’ll use to describe the moment I’m in.