I didn't just lie in bed in the dark one night thinking about it, to realize I was in love with music. It simply stared back at me with wide, admiring eyes when I ejected out into my first light of day and it settled in my heart like a plate full of poutine to an American, the first time trying it in Canada.
What I didn't expect was for musical machinery such as the Walkman, to be considered museum displays only years after I used to enjoy it.
I feel like a person imprisoned by age trying to escape getting old, only to watch time slivering by as cold as a snake. This is not a deliriously, funny joke; this is real life, roaring past and I am still a student getting discounts for learning from the school of life and it's deficiencies.
Music is a short term breather. A recycling of old, repressed feelings that stayed stored up behind the bars that are catching me shriveling away. Sexy music of today that hit and run by to tomorrow until it becomes yesterday, and today's museum exhibits.
And still I lie here giddy with love, dreaming of wedding bells ringing as I approach the aisle with music by my side as music's bride, doing the marriage walk into a third-degree type of coffee hot romance with a flush of confidence, only to be awakened by the cleaning service.
I awaken, still antiquating and music still a love that though it's artifacts grow old, the romance never expires.