Strange People, Stranger Feelings

I have a love-hate relationship with music. I'd saturate my music player with The Fray and Tyrone Wells, Birdy and Jason Walker, One Republic and Leona Lewis, Ben Harper and Ed Sheeran, A Fine Frenzy and Sara Bareilles, Kevin Daniel and Courier, Andrew Belle and Foy Vance, Daughter and Cary Brothers and end up listening to them for hours, letting myself drown in the melancholy they inject in my already melancholic soul.

Whenever I feel like my life has faded away into irrelevance, I'd listen to their songs, pretend they are a balm to my battered spirit, pretend that I have company amidst the misery in the form of the faceless voices emanating from whatever player I have handy.

It reminds me, rather painfully, that I am riddled with a streak of loneliness, that I am suffused with the feeling of otherness that has always driven me to solitude and succumb to the pull of lilting music with often incomprehensible lyrics.

I have a love-hate relationship with my music preference. Because no matter how much I loathe the feelings they arouse and amplify in me, I still cave in and listen.