💾 Archived View for tilde.team › ~aprilnightk › gemlog › 2022 › 01 › 23-music-love-hate.gmi captured on 2022-03-01 at 15:30:07. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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I was pointlessly navigating my filesystem today because I couldn't think of anything else to do. I've found lots of old files, some survived from my childhood, having been carefully transferred from one harddisk to another.
This is how I stumbled upon my folder with music I wrote, last one being written sometime last autumn.
Without music, I would have never known a human can be capable of feeling such polarly opposite feelings all at once. The emotions so difficult to handle, that last autumn I told myself that I'm not doing it anymore. I'm not composing anymore. I forced myself to stop doing it and forget about writing music.
... I love music. The process of making it is ecstatic. Have you ever noticed how exactly the melody, the harmony, the chords and progressions are born in one's mind? It's such a mysterious process. You find yourself in front of a screen (or a sheet) of written notes, and you can't remember where you got them from, _how_ you constructed them.
But somehow, they reflect how you feel, what you want to express, and when you find _that_ chord, the one that really strucks the strings of a soul, you know that it was worth doing it all along, sitting for hours, adding measures, removing measures, redoing measures.
... I hate music. The process of writing it is excruciating. It drains you to your very core, the struggle for a perfect note, for a perfect melody, a perfect harmony. Knowing that you will probably never manage to materialize the music that you can hear in your mind, you will never put it to paper verbatim. It's always going to be suboptimal. It will never be good enough. And even if it were, it will only drown in the oceans of music already written. It will never reach ears, because deep inside you are never sure it's worthy of pushing it, so you never push it.
And so you spend hours, pouring all the pain or happiness or whatever that your heart contains on the sheet, and with every minute you feel more and more empty, until you're a mere shell, a semblance of a feeling person. You don't feel anything, you gave it all and you're angry because it was never, never good enough. And you tell yourself that this was the last piece you ever write. Please, music, let me go. I hate you. Rinse, repeat.
Somehow I felt like publishing a small portion my music, mostly because it never went anywhere anyway. So far it's just three out of dozens I have, just three latest works.
Here you can listen to this small collections.
Endgames and Pas Tranquille are pieces that I participated in a neoclassical competition with. Neither of them made it to the shortlist, so I'm just putting it here. Maybe someday, someone would find it interesting.
Maybe I will add to this list. Maybe I will get back to writing. I have a song that I never finished, because it was too much for me to handle. I don't know.