translation

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Sometimes I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to process a cacophony of thoughts of emotions. I don’t know how to sort through them. I don’t understand how joy and sorrow can be set so closely in the mix, simultaneously. I don’t understand how contentment and frustration can live together without a clash.

Lately, the only logical outpouring of those feelings comes through music. Somehow, in moments where melodies overwhelm is the only ones any of it makes sense. A piano’s keys become my interpreters. Suddenly, joy and anger and frustration and love are flowing through my fingers in colors. From the depths of my soul, I feel them rush out with warmth, so intensely I wonder if my heart’s contents are about to spill out into the open air of the room for all to see.

Or, tonight, I lay in the park, curled with my knees to my chest and my head resting on my purse, as the harmonies of violins, cellos and violas wash over me. The chill in the air has tinged my toes with cold, but I’m comfortable as I lie tucked under a blanket, breathing in the grass. The lead singer of a band is crooning along with the orchestra, his voice soothing. If feels therapeutic, refreshing. If feels like a balm on my heart, raw from days of prodding.

I remember early on fearing moments like these. Now, I don’t know how to contain them anymore in the pretty box I once stored them in. They no longer fit.

Sometimes, when words are inadequate, there is translation in music.

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