I found myself dancing alone in my underpants this morning to new mixes of unreleased music.
This is a good sign. When a Hugh Grantishly awkward weirdo who speaks like an animated tweed jacket attempts to dance, that my furniture didn’t spontaneously combust in protest’s probably as glowing an endorsement as I deserve.
But the songs ARE good, and during my life’s current dishevelment I need them - not to be popular, or cool, but just to exist, as reminders that I have a voice that matters, and my sharing matters, too.
And after all I’ve been through, that I still believe in music, in my music, that it heals, and I can’t bare the thought of myself as some unopened letter, gathering dust, brimming with love and light never to be known.