When you're twelve years old and you fall in love, everyone knows it's not Love you're falling into. Love with a capital L comes when you have a certain capacity to grasp the concept. And at twelve years, you don't have it yet.
Only after you have wallowed and waded in Love, do you know what it is you're swimming in. Sometimes, you don't even know what it was until it's gone. And the emptiness is consuming.
From that point forward, we see Love wherever we look. Love is in that song. Love is in that tree. Love spills painfully out of those people. And without it, there is nothing to do but witness its existence.
For me, it's the same with music now. Now what I listen to isn't sound anymore. It's an aching, dripping morsel that reverberates from my speakers and twists my thumpy heart. I feel that I am without it, that it will never bless my fingers again, if it ever did. Oh, lord, has it ever touched me? Ever? I mean, REALLY touch me? Has what I've made been sound without music?
And I'm bargaining with invisible dealers to toss me scraps of inspiration - that this time, I will make music from the fray.
I'm so happy to drown in the steel of other peoples' gifts. I wish I had the heart of ten thousand warriors to house this bursting Love.
