It seems to me that if you place music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the center of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as the finished product. You’ve got to pick at it, keep it alive and in turmoil, you’ve got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you’re compelled to start all over again. Maybe we live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship (Hornby, High Fidelity p. 136).
This is me, I guess.
(So so so so me, you guys. Like, whoa/woe.)
And so that’s what I’ve been up to the past couple of weeks, how are you?
(I really wanted to end the post there, but feel like I have to explain myself and let you know that everything is fine – it’s just that high pitch lifestyle I lead.)