This past January I diagnosed myself with music comas. And I got it bad.
Let me start of by giving you an example; before typing this, I booked clean through and hour and thirty on the floor of my dorm room, heater switched high, sock covered feet tapping, and listening; listening to The XX and Harlem Shakes and Jose Gonzalez and Dark Was The Night. On Sunday I was sucked into the land of White Stripes/Arcade Fire/Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Books the Sunday before. Miike Snow the Monday before that. Lost in Louis Armstrong. Saturated in Sufjan. Animal Collective? Please. Bon Iver? Yes, please. I sit or lay down, cross my legs, or stretch them out, or cross them again, and soak. And breathe. If I had a syringe I would inject it. I would become a part of it. I would gasp it, gulp it. MUSIC. Ahhhhhh, music. Music in my lungs.
I used to not love music for music’s sake. I was picky. I would only like it if it was creative and innovative and indie and folk and instrumental and that’s about it. I couldn’t listen to something I didn’t like. Honestly, I was a accomplished music snob.
But not anymore!
Music is so addicting to me because it is created; a beautiful, breathing blessing from Yahweh. He placed that desire in us to crave it, to find satisfaction in it, to communicate and create and adulate in it. My desire to worship Him can be temporarily satisfied through music, and He knew that I would need that.
Our desires for splendor—for the second world—that cant even be brushed against in this present reality can be teased and tasted through music; drunk through the sound of cords and notes and strings.
Ah! I love it.
