hey,
Sometimes, when the world feels too heavy, and I can’t find a way to release what’s inside, I turn to music. It’s the only thing that truly seems to make sense in those moments. But it’s not just about listening to the songs—it’s about feelingthem, being in them.
I listen to hard rock, mostly bands like Nirvana, System of a Down, Metallica, Queen, Rammstein, Green Day, Scorpions, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I know, it sounds intense, right? And that’s exactly the point. When I listen to these songs, I don’t just hear the music—I feel it. I sing along, loudly, because sometimes that’s the only way I can get the emotions out.
But it’s not just about the music itself—it’s what it triggers inside me. There’s a certain rawness in the lyrics, like the ones in Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody when Freddie sings, “Sometimes I wish I was never born at all.” Those words—they cutwhen I sing them, even though I know I don’t actually want to feel that way. But in those moments, it’s almost like I’m admitting the emotions that feel too dark to say out loud. You know the ones—those thoughts that you think you shouldn’t have, the ones that make you feel like you’re broken.
But when I sing those words, it’s like a release. A way of saying, “I feel this. And it’s okay.”
What’s strange, though, is that even while I’m singing my heart out, even while I’m imagining being at the concert, in the crowd, surrounded by the music, I still feel alone. It’s like there’s this wall between me and everyone else, even though I can picture the stage, the instruments, the lights, the people around me all singing together. It’s as if I’m part of something bigger, but still on the outside looking in.
And that’s where the tears come in. I’m crying not just because the music moves me—but because the music makes me feel the weight of something I can’t shake off. I feel the emptiness, the longing, even in the midst of all that energy and connection. I want to be there, in that crowd, but somehow it’s just me, alone with the music. And it’s not even about being physically alone—it’s this deeper feeling that even when there are people around, I can’t truly reach them, or they can’t reach me.
I don’t always know why I feel this way, and that’s part of the frustration. Sometimes it’s like I’m stuck in this loop, trying to make sense of it but never fully understanding the cause. But I do know that singing these songs, imagining myself at that concert—it helps. It’s like an emotional release, a way to let the feelings out that I can’t put into words. But it doesn’t always make it go away. The loneliness lingers.
Still, I know I’m not truly alone. I think there’s something about music that connects us to a part of ourselves, a deeper part that we might not always understand. It’s not the same as real human connection, but it still matters. These songs, these lyrics, the energy I feel even in my imagination—they’re reminders that I’m here. I may feel alone, but I’m not invisible. These emotions I’m carrying are real, and they matter. And that’s what keeps me going, even when it feels like there’s a wall between me and everything else.
So, I keep singing, even when it hurts. Because maybe in those moments, it’s not about the crowd around me. It’s about finally allowing myself to be seen—by me.