I miss music.
Music has always been a big part of my life, or the background of my life. I have had a constant soundtrack accompanying me since I was a baby. First it was Elvis and the Beach Boys, the Monkees and the Kinks. Then it was Duran Duran and Wham and A-ha. The Housemartins. Punk. Ska. Britpop. Alternative. Indie.
I played instruments with varying degrees of incompetency, I sang and tentatively hit the right notes at least 60% of the time. There was always a tune in my head, whether it was a three-note unconsciously self-composed piece or a catchy song I’d heard on the radio. I hummed, I whistled and, more than all of these, I listened to music whenever I could. On headphones or out loud, music was always with me.
Now it’s gone. When I go walking, I have to listen to podcasts now. Music doesn’t distract enough; it doesn’t stop the negative monologue that has replaced the music in my head and driven away the music in my ears. Songs evoke memories. Good memories make me cry for those lost times and friends. Bad memories make me cry for those events that happened and I was powerless or too exhausted to stop. Emotional music makes me… well, emotional and I don’t need more emotional.
I don’t play anymore. I try. I pick up my guitar, my least incompetent instrument, and can manage a song or two sometimes before it peters out. Sometimes I just pick it up and will myself to think of a song to play. Mostly I don’t bother.
I don’t sing. And I never dance.
I miss music. Maybe one day I’ll feel ready for it again and that’s when I’ll know I’m better.