Slowly I come back from that tired sickness of the last few weeks. Slowly the day warms itself on my skin, and I feel as if I am expanding out of myself, deep breaths that loosen my consciousness and rattle the edges of my being. I practice, my fingers fluid upon the keys and thought dissipates in the rapid meditation of playing. I have never been good at meditation, my thoughts running wild, weeds amidst the mind's garden. Still, I have never minded weeds, and the carefree whimsy of their beauty. Meditations tend to get away from me, the mind creating rich fantasies or caught in it's own plodding toil. But music, it is it's own consciousness, it's own fantasy, it's own entity. So I play and let it shape the contours of my thoughts, let my voice lull me into a place of serendipity. What is, what was, what could be, they all collide when I let music become me, layers upon layers of lines intersecting, of realities collecting and interacting. As if all can be, two opposing thoughts or ways of being, somehow meshing within the intricacies of notes. 

I have moments when I wonder what I am doing, how to find my way through the hazardous landscapes of financial and emotional realities to be able to live with music, breath music. Someone once said to me "some people can choose music or not, but not you. No, you cannot help but write music, it is part of who you are.". I think about that comment a lot, especially when I wonder if I am being selfish to want this so much, to put so much of myself into it. Perhaps some choices aren't choices. Perhaps we either become more like ourselves, or we simply kill ourselves inside.



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