Sing to Me
Jordan Blank

Sing to me the song of the stars, the notes of purest ecstasy and light. Build for me an intangible castle of notes, towers of sharps and base stones of flats. Play for me a melody to flow as a river from its lovely falls, winding about me in the beauty of aural pleasure. The sweetness of the airy Aria, floating about my ears as the fey who dance in the evening-time, laughing with their high voices, is comparable only to the cadence of a lover’s song. I would to be caressed by the strains of the piano’s chords, to shudder at the low tones of the bass clef as it rumbles through the air. To be brought up to the clouds by the sweet voice of the treble. I would to sway to the whim of the violin, unable to will myself to do otherwise. How lovely, how beautiful is that loss of will. The loss of self within the sounds around me. In that moment, there is only sweet freedom, brought about by the simple music. Sweeter still is the sound of the orchestra, not one instrument, but many, working in tandem to bring about a climax of sensation, leaving me breathless and wanting. Joined with a voice, it induces a trembling, a quaking of delight and anticipation and wide-eyed wonder.
I let myself be carried away on the tides of the compositions of the masters. Classical, we call it. Art, I say, an experience to be had over and over and over again. I desire to experience such joy. To listen with the deafness of Beethoven, finding my way through the paths of rhythm by the vibrations of sound alone. Where will it take me? On a flight of freedom granted by the airy lyrics of an operatic romance? Through the woods and into an old era with the liveliness of a folk song? Into the story of another life altogether, sparking the dance of a ballet? It does not matter. As long as it takes me, I shall go wherever it may lead. 
From the soft caresses of the classics to the crazed cacophony of chaos that serves as the style of later years, I have found myself swaying. First, into the arms and gentle touch of the former, then to the excitement of the second. Soft strains may enchant the mind, but a strong beat wrests control of the heart. It sends my pulse into erraticism in time with the pounding of the drums. The growl of the guitar drives chills down my spine like the hot breath of a predator in the night, causing me to shiver and to listen in willing fascination. It is a frenzy, not at all the kind coaxing of its predecessor. It is violent in its forced control. Its vocalists do not croon out sweet nothings of enticement. They scream with the voice of a banshee, entrancing and deadly in their anarchy of sound. Addictive in its disorder, it draws forth anger from the heart before taking it on itself. It is kind in that manner, coaxing negative emotions out and letting them slip away.
For all its loveliness, however, the music can never stay. How long, from the first note to the last, reverberating chord? How many short minutes between the beginning and the end? Listen well, do not let it slip away in that time. Keep it in your heart, curled up with all those things you love most. It understands every person individually, peeking into the soul and shining with what one needs. Do not allow it to leave you, alone and without its touch. Do not let it abandon you. For all its kindness, music is as wily as a fox. It will slip between the cracks in the walls around your heart and show you utter euphoria. Then it will dance away before you are aware of its intentions. Let it control you, let it move you in a dance, whether physical or within the realm of the psyche. Let it sway you with saccharine words and strains, but do not let it slip away. Do not let it leave you wanting. Cling to it, as the musk of the rose clings to its bloom. Grasp it with your own hands. Entrap it as it has entrapped you. The short minutes between the beginning and the end mean little. When one song ends, the next will begin. And the entanglement of song will start anew.