Every So Often, There's Nothing to Listen To

Trigger warning for suicide.

One of the downsides of becoming truly excited about music over the last few years is that every so often you're sitting, writing, wanting to listen to something...but you're not quite sure what. So naturally you boot up Spotify to see what's going on. Anything new that'd be interesting to listen to? Seems not really. Maybe that new Beyonce? But that's not the space I'm in right now. More from Thumpasaurus? Eh, also not the right move.

You start to try to figure out what the moment is asking for musically. Seems like something instrumental would be good, but not folk or fiddle because that's not feeling electric enough. So maybe we need something electronic! Then you remember there's like, no good electronic music that slaps. I want Zedd, but even that's too lyrical at times.

Now I'm thinking too much. I just wanna start an album and let it play out while I WRITE! Is that too much to ask?

And then a slow, sinking feeling starts to set in. The reminder that at some points, nothing fits the taste for music at that moment. There is no good music to listen to, and now you must write in silence as though you are an ancient gentleman harboring much woe, scribbling your useless little thoughts onto paper with quill and ink, hoping your son will come back from war alive. And with your late mother gone, you have no one. No one to speak with and no one to love. Your kindness, your hope, your serenity, your grace, all diminished under the cold wet roof of your creaking wooden home. Your tears embellish the page with a sparkle against the candlelight. A rage builds inside of you as you procure a knife from your purse. The thought of life has become dull, damp, and sullen. You bring the knife to your own throat, and then, with one swift movement, you--

Oh wait I could listen to Bill Withers.