There is perhaps no truer mark of the insanity of writers than the fact that we are inherently and embarrassingly compelled to express ourselves or display our creativity in writing even when there is no one around to read our carefully chosen, optimistically published words. It’s akin to some poor inebriated sap muttering to himself in a dark and lonesome alley somewhere. Or is that just me?
I don’t want this to sound as ridiculous or hyperbolic as it might, but I truly do believe I experience music on a cellular or molecular . . . perhaps even a subatomic level. It’s really that deep for me. Always has been. Given my parents’ love for music this probably began in utero with me. As Nietzsche said, “Without music, life would be a mistake.” ‘Nuff said.