I have this song inside me. This song that sings on and on and on, through every waking moment of my day, from the first second when I swing my feet over the side of the bed, until the second I crash into bed at night.

I have this song that is like a crescendo, or an adagio, or a libretto, or a Spanish flamenco. It’s like a wordless beat, a wordy rant, a conversation with me and the universe and with people. This song never shuts up, and I trip to its beat always.

This song sets me apart, sets me into the pit or up on the pedestal. This song makes me question, makes me awe, makes me wonder, and makes me cry, and makes me laugh. It’s a fugue and a power ballad; it’s AC-DC Thunderstruck and it is Gorecki’s “Sorrowful songs”. It is everything and it is everywhere.

Sometimes I can’t hear it. Sometimes I ignore it. Sometimes I push it away. Sometimes it’s annoying and scary and sad. Sometimes it’s like sex. Sometimes it’s like the weepy scene in Bambi when his mothers is shot.

But I think I’m blessed for that song, and I say that as someone who doesn’t believe in the supernatural. Genetics, or nurture, has started the endless soundtrack of my life, that song, and I generally think it’s good. I think I would be poorer without it. I think the silence would be like the endless deep. It would be like falling forever into silence.