Twenty twenty twenty four hours ago

I have to have music playing.

There’s something about silence that can be wonderful. A gorgeous stillness that rings like a bell inside your chest. The kind that speaks so you don’t have to.

But that kind of silence is a rare thing. Most of the time, silence to me screams of boredom. It fills up with tiny little scritches and scratches that I can’t quite hear but keep my attention flickering nonetheless.

This is when I put on music.

Sometimes, my mood is gray and loveworn, so I put on something indie and acoustic, soft like snowfall. Other times, I’m pissed off and laughing, so I bang my head to the Ramones and Rise Against. When I’m trying to write, I go where my characters go, whether that’s the sloped hills of Vivaldi or bright cities named Rodrigo y Gabriela or the rich, green forests of a Miyazaki soundtrack.

In my car, my windows are almost always rolled down, the wind nearly as melodic as the song pouring through. And, I just can’t help but sing along.

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