Lately, I've been wanting to post only songs on my blog, such as the previous post. Songs can be so movingly, achingly relatable, but really--let's face it--consist of no constancy of intimate and personal thought (on my part), no long ramblings of the thoughtful sort. Music, for me, speaks more deeply than any journal-ese can ever do. But besides revealing my own emotional state, music itself does not truly represent me as a person.
As much as I fight myself in this battle between posting music and actually engaging with my own thoughts by putting fingers to keyboard, I realize that nothing can substitute for the rich, raw emotion that reverberates from mind to fingers, fingers to keyboard, and keyboard to screen. So type, I must.
A type of musical number, this thought process is. Lifting of a finger, a stretch of arm. My mind races and slows, ebbs and flows in contemplation of the astutely quiet and the imperviously loud. A pirouette, a spring into the air. Thoughts connect, merge, confound. An outpouring of emotions tentatively abound.
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