of music. How completely arrogant of me to think that I could, in mere words, describe that which moves me from a place that is only attainable through the influence of sound. How conceited to believe that I could manufacture a description for something that is so alive that it competes for the beat in my heart, steals the blood from my veins; causes forgotten recesses in my brain to open and embrace this thing that is older than time itself. How absurdly confident I would be to even consider trying to describe the piercing ache of pain and astounding thrill of joy that a single piece can inflict.
How very foolish it would be to attempt to paint a picture of the beauty and vastness that music creates. It is a vastness that even the universe cannot contain. God Himself requested that we sing to Him and if it is such that the God of all creation would want to hear, what possibly could I add that wouldn’t come across as mundane and condescending. How could I possibly explain that the stars in the midnight sky dance to the melody of the earth and that her music is a symphony unto herself.
No, I think it best to let music speak for itself, draw its own conclusions and make its own mark. No one can be taught or bargained or coerced into feeling the emotion of music. You either feel it, succumb to it, and let yourself be moved by it or you don’t; there are no words. So I won’t even try.
A Photographer's Heart 