Sometimes when I get a really intense massage, I can be brought to tears. The masseuse hits that spot and involuntarily tears spring up from the depths of an internal memory locker I never realized existed.
So many songs have that same effect on me. The song will barely have started and the tear ducts will begin to sting even if I was giddier than a toddler a second earlier. But often it won’t be a sorrowful, I wish I wasn’t crying type cry, but instead a releasing, cleansing, I wish I would never stop crying sensation. The chords just dig in there, right down into my guts, biting and ripping my insides until I’m rippling with sobs. The tears stream down my face and my skin gets all prickly and the waves of emotion just envelop me as my organs throb. And it all makes me feel so fucking alive, so real, so here on this planet. It is as if I have just taken a narcotic yet I’m so sober that the edginess of being sober adds to the narcotic feeling.
When I crave that rawness, that connection to something beautiful, I turn off the lights, slip on my headphones, bury myself beneath the covers, hit play, and float off on a wet-eyed storm cloud of welcome torment.