Op. No 92- Ludwig van Beethoven

As I sit here, alone, working on my fourth, maybe fifth? glass of wine, Beethoven’s 7th coursing through my speakers, I cannot help but to feel this shit in my soul.

So angsty, so lovely, so  manic, so depressive. In the span of four measures. Ludwig is, by far, my favorite composer. Not only to play,  but to listen to.

His music resonates. In my bones. In my soul. I have only  connected to classical music like this once before in my life and it was this piece. Adagio by Samuel Barber. Performing this piece was an essential experience, to say the least. One of the more challenging pieces, but nonetheless, amazing. I cried when my conductor finally put down his baton.

The feeling that classical music gives us is not one to be taken for granted. It is the original, the ground rules for everything else. Without a basic understanding of classic music, how can one confidently compose their own?

How can one so outwardly express their emotions solely through the sounds  of the orchestra, without words?

How can one outwardly express themselves through words or emotions?

The dynamics, the key,  the bravado. All of it plays an integral role in our own personal advancements.

To  me, classical music allows me to gather my thoughts, turn off all of the voices in my head. When it is playing, I just listen, and allow my emotions to flow freely.  Something that I tend to avoid in my daily meanderings.

A person such as myself, keeps a stone cold exterior. Always plays the strong one. Never says how we really feel. No one ever sees me cry.

But Ludwig, he speaks to me. His symphonies and Sonatas touch a part of my being that I try so  hard to lock away, for the sake of everyone involved. Not only other people, bu more so myself. As “the rock” I tend not to express  how I feel, or how much the world is bothering me at this particular pint in time. I would much rather cry myself to sleep alone,  or scream in my car, before expressing to others how I feel.


It is easier to keep a cold exterior than it is to let someone in?

Is that why I am so hard to love?

Is that why it is so hard to love myself?

It is easier to  bleed than it is to ask for help.

As I lay here dying, I would apologize for getting blood on your carpet. And with my final breath I would offer to clean up the mess.

Always the giver. Always the rock. Always the voice of reason.

What happens when the voice of reason needs a helping hand herself?

Will I continue to bleed out until someone comes to my aid?

By then, will it be too late?


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