We rely on music to change our moods, soundtrack our lives so much these days that I sometimes feel as if music is a crutch. We listen to euphoric music to raise us from glumness, angry/fuckyou music to prop ourselves up from insecurity, music only slightly more interesting than the boredom we wish to distance ourselves from.
But does listening to all this music on this constant stream throughout a given day come at the cost of exercising our mental willpower? From building the disciplined fortitude that allows us to come to terms with that frightening, isolating state — silence?
Over the past few weeks, I’ve found that it’s become much more difficult for me to persevere through a jog without music. To have uneventful-time-spent-alone pass bearably and positively without a curated playlist.
I’m not sure I like that. I like music, but I don’t want to be a slave to it. I don’t want to be a slave to anything. I also want to retain my hearing into my 50s.
I think I’m going to take a walk around the lake right now. I’ll leave Steve Job’s Miracle at home.
I know it ain’t going to be easy, walking alone in the world. No Björk whispering into my ears to comfort me, none of LCD Soundsystem’s secure rhythm to guide my steps.