Musiked

I live with echoes. The lively ones are not from morbid music. I prefer to be murdered by music – fatally injured by flawless tunes, stabbed by svelte melodies and yet I survive my soul. It sits up and swings to the surprising musical variations – foreplaying ourselves to a music we may not forthtell instantly.

Music basks your brain, withdraws you into its womb and re-conceives you. It babies your body with shivers – dancing you to death of ignorance and relives you with wisdom. You dance to the music of the universe inside and outside you.

All tunes meld with the brain's "schemas," a web of memory connections that translate familiar things and situations into feelings. By upsetting the ingrained schemas with a simple twist in melody or rhythm, a good artist is responsible for that perennial spark of surprise.

Some are seized by music, other have seizures while playing music. In either case, it is the music that grips the soul, yet sets it free. So free that it takes the flight of flawlessness to a space where there is lawlessness – only music rules there without any rules.