Music. A question for the skeptics. An oasis for the outcast. Music. The transmission of our souls and the ripple of our heartbeat. Our inhale; exhale. Music.
I see my 13-year-old self staring up at the dimly lit ceiling; the complex, discordant, pilgrimage of a young female from a broken family, a string of unfathomable tragedies, and a few personal demons. As I look up at the ceiling, with so many surrounding distractions, I close my eyes, and a gentle smile stretches across my face as the smooth voice of Etta James’s sings,
Sometimes I get a good feeling
I get a feeling that I never, never had before
And I got to tell you right now
I believe, I really do believe that
Something’s got a hold on me, yeah
Oh, it must be love
There was only one thing I could lose myself in. Music. Music was my sanctuary within the rubble. And I knew, even then, that music would always have a hold on me.