It was a minor with a supertonic twist, a violin playing an A in a diminished seventh. Oh, sweet music.
It occurred to me that it didn't matter whether I shared my emotion with anyone, it was my feeling and validated my the sheer depth and breadth and height of its existence in my soul. The composer didn't need to know. I wonder if he felt this way as the idea came to him, or as he wrote it out, or as he heard it played for the first time? Surely he cared what his audience thought. Maybe he didn't and was a true artist compelled to score just because he couldn't keep the music inside.
How much of what I do is to impress? It doesn't matter if anyone notices the color of my toenail polish. I picked the color because it reached me. If a certain piece of art moves me to tears so that I can no longer see it, it's enough for me to have experienced the moment. I don't need external validation to tell me that indeed, I was overwhelmed. That I love.
I've learned contentment with my routines and with my ridiculous ways. I don't think I'm perfection in a bottle, but I'm joyful and smiley driving alone in my car. Standing in front of the mirror. Falling asleep at night. I am with myself.
Thank you, age, for this gift. Thank you, experience, for helping me to embrace/let go of my past. Thank you, me, for not believing in the word FAIL.
I think this vase is beautiful too.