It’s a frightful thing, the power that music can have on my emotions. It’s a frightful thing, my emotions. When reason reigns, and feeling has no reason, then feeling only threatens. Feeling is responsible for the arbitrary associations I find in my neurology. A smell, a sound, a rush of memory. The object, for me, is forever tainted. And for what reason? Of course I do not want to subject myself to such randomness. I do not indulge. I love music. Therefore I do not listen to it. Indulgence is mindless. I have no control over the result. What new links are going to get created inside me that I had no say in allowing? Experience is a demon, always threatening to possess me. So I must stay on guard. Is it any wonder I don’t remember so much of my childhood? I did not allow it to possess me like a demon. I cut it short. Masterfully.
I must stay on guard, because it’s a powerful beast. Atrophied, yet still it heaves with terrible strength. If I’m careful, I can keep the noise loud enough to drown out its breathing. When it does come through–and I feel the disgusting feeling of nostalgia, the heart-breaking feeling of nostalgia–I’m vindicated in my resolve. If I can’t have the experience back, then why flirt with it? Do I enjoy pain? Shall I enjoy grief? And so I pretend that emotions are scarce. Feeling is a sacred, pure thing reserved for lofty notions. I’ve always known better than those who lose themselves at rock concerts.