Carried along

Sometimes music confuses me.  Not the way people make it, or what's inside it, but the way we listen to it.  Especially the way we listen to music we love.  The way we bend it to ourselves, and our self to it at the same time.

There are some songs where I just listen and marvel at the beauty or the creativity, or feel mildly depressed that I (however possible or impossible it may be) didn't come up with it first, or enjoy their capacity to make me smile every time. There are songs that move me to worship.

Then there are songs that, when I listen to them, I think "If one could drown in a song—physically drown—this would be a glorious way to go."  They're the songs that can make a daydream feel like it lasts a week, or insomnia feel like an inamorato; the songs that you turn up to eardrum-splintering volume or put on repeat all night.  (I do, at least.)  When I listen to these, it's like I am simultaneously trying to awaken part of myself and kill part of myself.  What are the chances that that's actually healthy?  Probably not all that high, at least in frequent doses.