I turned 35 a few hours ago, so excuse me if I clear my throat too much. The fridge won't stop running and that's the way it is with me somehow.
Yeah, sure, I feel old. I remember being a teenager and being 24 and turning 16 and almost being 30 and yesterday. But imagine how my mom feels today.
I keep thinking I'm going to have it all figured out tomorrow. If you play something for 35 years, you're supposed to be an expert, right? Well, I'm staying up all night looking for cheat codes. I'm plugging my headphones into my chest and this is all I hear: Noise.
There's soft music playing in three chambers of my heart. But that fourth chamber is full of fight music. The beat just dropped and everyone's losing their mind. This music controls me.
I can't fall asleep without listening to it, I can't write, I can't drive, I can't mow the lawn, do the dishes, get a cavity filled, walk through the grocery store, stand in an elevator, I can't dance. I can't go to funerals or weddings or have a conversation about anything. I can't think without listening to it.
I must be afraid of silence. After a joke. After a poem. After a prayer.
Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah? I've earned enough courtesy laughs to open a museum.
So turn up the music. Turn it up while you work and lose yourself in it. Because even though I'm 35, I'm still a work in progress. We all are. Until the day we stop running.