Music, souls and history.

I love classical music. I adore the rise and fall, the emotional range that spears its way through my ears to my soul. The very essence of music is something I love, I don’t know how people don’t like music. They scare me as much as people who don’t like animals.

When I was young, I heard a piece of music that made me stop playing with my ragged plushy rabbit and pay attention. It rose and fell across my mind, its jarring beat spoke of a thousand stories. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just heard Night on Bald Mountain by Modest Mussorgsky. I had been put in front of Fantasia, all the pieces had their draw, but that piece, the final piece, threw my child aged mind into chaos. Later in my life I heard more pieces, by more artists, but there’s always a special place in my heart from that piece.

I love hearing all types of music, anything, even as background noise. Everything from pop to rap, dubstep to RnB, it may be awful, I may decide I hate it once I’ve heard it, but I will try the majority of things once.

But not Morris dancing, I can’t afford to drop the stick.

I have, over the years, met many various people. Some of them were like clouds, in that the day vastly improved when they left, others were parasitic wretches I wouldn’t wish on the worst bowels anywhere. Others were a positive pleasure to have in my life, tiny bubbles of joy that spread across my life, refracting happiness and contentment over the world. Some stayed brilliant, other turned out to bubbles filled with farts from the most nauseous swamp donkey guts in existence. But, nevertheless, I am improved by meeting them, even if it’s just because I vowed to be better then them.

I’m getting off topic.

Since the dawn of man, humans have found different ways to tell their stories and give advice. They used art to tell what happens when you tangle with sabre tooth tigers, large herds of mammoths and bigger tribes of other humans. They then started using stories, telling of gods and mortals, demons and creatures known only to shamans. The stories grew deeper and more detailed, featuring more and more characters and lessons, the stories spread and became songs.

Those songs were told by more and more people, and had the benefit of being potentially catchy, which made then easier to remember.

Either way, songs are great, wherever they are, whatever they tell, they tell someone something. A song may mean nothing to 10,000 people, but it could be the difference between life and death to just one person. Stalin once said that “The death of one man is a tragedy, but the death of millions is just a statistic” and unfortunately, it’s true. Sometimes the tragedy is only in the eyes of the one who dies, but a tragedy nonetheless.

Listen to the words, or the music, whichever you need to hear first. Just listen.

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