Beyond my poetic disgust to music

Why is the aching so damn bad? That was the only question circling around my mind last night. Not the thought of you. Not the broken idea of a perfect family. Not even the lack of world peace. And not even Obama’s victory. There’s nothing in my mind but the aching coming from an unknown source. I felt so empty. Or maybe, I exactly know where it’s coming from but I am too scared to concede with the thoughts.

I hugged mogmog (my comfort piggy toy) and played “make it real” in my play list. I’ve noticed that I’ve been playing it over and over for the past three days. A thing so weird of me (Seen and Ate Grace knows about this) because I hate listening to music. I hate them whenever they turn on the stereo. And I hate times like this – whenever my mind bugged me about playing overly emotional song – which my ears largely deride. It’s not really the music that I hate. Actually, am an admirer of good music. But it’s the effect of the music that I avoid. It makes me too emotional. It turns me into a sentimental fool humming with its loneliness.

And talking about music, it always reminds me of you, Marnee. I love you for introducing me to your breed of music. I still enjoy them but I have to pause for a time. I miss you and our conversation about life.