As We Digress: Music

Do you think music defines you, or do you define what music is to you?

Lately I have been experimenting with different genres of music, and I feel rather attracted to a specific genre that I never knew existed. And I think, would I have loved it more than my other favorite genre had I known it at the time? I didn't have an answer before.
And I didn't have to.
And I wouldn't have had to.
But it's just a question that dangles in front of you and it makes you wonder (if you will at all): How much time you are willing to spend wondering if you should answer, or not answer, wondering if there is an answer, or if there isn't is completely up to your busy or un-busy schedule, is up to how much time you are willing to spend on a question like this, and up to how seriously you take your taste in music and how highly (or un-highly) you think of this incredible form of art.

Is it the lyrics (if you listen to music with lyrics) that attract you? Or is it the actual formation of music that blows you away? Or is it both? If so, then which leads to the other? Is it the lyrics that would have a song blow you away? Or is it the composition of music that makes the lyrics divine to you?

Do you think music should come in themes or is it some sort of distorting the raw, beautiful material that's already there? How do you think music should be categorized: according to genre? Content? Lyrics? Loveability? Popularity? Unpopularity? Or should it be un-categorized?

Do you think there's unsuitable material for musical or lyrical incorporation? Musical, like adding unorthodox sounds, like frogs, flies, mosquitoes? Using rather normal objects to make sounds and incorporate them in music?
Are there any limits to what a song should or shouldn't talk about? And if so, then why there should be limits? After all, creation is infinite, and there is no stopping it, so why would you not listen to a song merely about pancakes? Pencils? Picture frames? And the more important question is, do you have an open mind to listen to it without labeling it or judging it by saying it's stupid, or meaningless? You know, this might actually hurt an artist. If you don't like it say so politely, and walk away...

In case you wonder whether or not I have answers to all of these questions, well, I do. And in case you didn't, then no problem.
I only have one more thing to say... I feel sorry for anyone who fails to be in love with music, the arts, and the universe.

And for art, even sky is not the limit.

A Change of Mind

She lived alone in a city far away from her home. As night sank in and all retired to their home she walked back to her house, a tiny apartment in a simple neighborhood where all form of life disappears by sun set. Silence and quiet were her biggest enemies, and in the past few months, clicking, they took her places she never wanted to go.

Just as she entered her place she ran to her stereo and played her favorite music, she then changed her clothes and cooked dinner, but she couldn't ignore the clicking she's hearing so she turned off her stereo for a few minutes, the clicking quieted but hadn't gone. It could be the pipes she reassured herself and turned on the music again, louder this time. She ate dinner by herself on her balcony, the clicking was in the background. "The pipes, the pipes" she reassured herself again and again. She did the dishes, played her music louder, and showered, and though the water fell hard on her head like this of an actual waterfall the clicking made its way through to her ears, clicked like the fall of mice feet on bare marble floors, fast, resounding, and... fast! As she finished the routinely chores around the house, her last stop was her bed. She checked the house, every corner of it, time and time again to find the source of the clicking, but nothing she found. The pipes are too loud, the pipes.
She headed to bed after her search failed, by then the clicking had subsided, but hadn't completely died out.

As she lay there alone the clicking seemed to be coming from the living room. Sleep abandoned her, leaving her prey for the night and to whatever clicked out there. The sound seemed to seethe through the walls, getting louder, and closer, creeping slowly to her head by the minute. Then the wall right next to her head clicked, and a shiver came down her spine, she was scared to the core. She felt paralyzed and unable to move.

After long, agonizing minutes the clicking got louder, and fear, like a current in a corpse, had her jump out of her bed and run to the kitchen where she had a big hammer in a drawer, then ran back to her room and started hammering the walls in a frenzy of fear and screams, shattering the walls of her room, the clicking got louder, and louder and more persistent, and she hammered, and hammered and screamed shattering all plaster that held those walls together, leaving nothing but naked pipes, a hollow windy spacing, and the clicking. The clicking, the clicking drove her insane, it drove her crazy, where is it coming from? Why is it still there?

Her ears started ringing while silence weighed her down, and the clicking so persistent made her grab that hammer and start hitting her own head, more frenzied than ever, she hammered at her head, laughing, screaming, crying in agony, and she went on, and the clicking went on, and the hammering went on until the blood-spattered walls stopped clicking, her ears stopped ringing, and the hammer looked like it was dipped in dough-like matter colored in flesh and red.