I have a tendency to always be listening to music. In the car, at home, at work — even when I sleep. It’s an addiction worse than many — I just can’t get enough. It’s my last vestige of my own world, of shutting everything else out and withdrawing into my own head, even as I keep pushing forward through the rigors of the day.
Sometimes, though, whether intentionally or not, I find myself in silence. But even in the silence, there’s music, if you know how to listen.
For a rhythm, there’s street machinery, or the passing of cars at rush hour, or a dripping faucet. There’s melody everywhere, in the pitches of running appliances or car alarms in the distance or animals. Wind blowing through drafty windows or the cooing of a neighbor’s baby act as occasional fills, adding to the melody.
It’s all about perception — how you see things, how you hear things, how you choose to experience the world around you. You can find solace in the quiet, a moment of peace — or you can find your own new symphony.