Mozart Requiem. Familiar. Go to wearisome, heaviness. Go to thick, impenetrable layers of sadness. I’m immobile, unable to ‘turn that frown upside down’. Asking too much.
So, I let the drama of the scrubbing violins, haughty call of the trumpets and trombones, overreaching tide of the unison choir take me, partially, to transcendent places in the Dies Irae.
My spirit rising smoke wisps, my body heavier than ten ton bricks.
It’s the only way. Is to feel. Not understand. Not reach for fake explanations of love gone sour, changes in mood medicines or hormonal imbalances.
It’s all toooo much. And that’s ok coz I’ll float on the ebb and flow of the Lacrymosa, tender violin falling phrases, touching my unreachable niggling soreness.