On Music

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


There are times when music reaches me. I'm open to it, vulnerable to a melody, a drum beat, or even the sound of a single note. It vibrates my exposed self and affects my emotional state. I become a mirror of the string that the guitarist plucks and the echo of the note rebounds off something inside me and ignites. I'm touched by the music and through the reactive parts of my brain, the parts that are lighting up and responding, I can feel higher and more alive that if the music wasn't there.

This doesn't happen all the time or even most of the time. Usually music is mere background noise. When I'm driving or walking, I'll sing along and after a few minutes not remember certain parts of the song, I just sang! Worse yet, there are times when I feel nothing. Even from my favorite songs, the ones that moved me most. I can hear the music and remember the affect it once had but it's like there's something between me and the feelings that were. There is a gap filled with some kind of spongy darkness between us.


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