Music, music everywhere and not a note to sing…
Today was my last day of work at the arborist company I’d been with since late May. It took me long enough to realize it, but the work was a huge drain on me. The sheer noise of the machinery and trucks left me physically and mentally wiped, even on somewhat shorter days. I would come home and just not want to do anything. I would just want quiet. Not even music.
The thing is though, I love music. Of all kinds. And given the option I would listen to it almost all day. But with this job, I couldn’t. And I don’t just mean while at work (the truck I usually rode in had no radio), but at home. I would need several hours to decompress to the point of wanting to hear something, quietly at best.
But music means too much to me. Never mind all the other sacrifices caused by being so tired from work – the bigger problem of course was that I just hadn’t been living my life. That should be enough for anyone to reconsider their position in life. But the realization after three months of chainsaws and chippers and freight trucks: I couldn’t even enjoy music anymore. Maybe on a weekend, if the work week weren’t too exhausting. If I weren’t too tired.
Too tired to listen to music. Too tired to make music. Too tired for what I love.
It was the last straw.
Music should be a great release, a helping hand to life one’s spirits from the mire of whatever hurts. It should not be a sacrifice for the day-to-day. I should be coming home from a long day at work to my music library, a ready catalogue of understanding voices and words. The sweetest melodies of happiness or sadness or frustration or relief. To play along with on guitar or bass or drums, real or air fantasy. If anything to sing along with. To match keys and notes, to soar with melodies and harmonies that tug at heartstrings and pull you right up and out. It feels good, even when it feels bad. The sweet melodic melodrama of it all.
I want it back. And it will be mine.
© 2016 Andrew Hall Writes