Go. Music moves me. That sounds corny. And I'm trying to think of a less cheeseball way to say what I mean, but with the clock ticking, I feel pressure to just keep rambling writing.
Music really is therapeutic to me. God speaks through lyrics and melody lines. He whispers through egg shakers and nudges me with notable percussion. I feel Him in a singer's voice that takes me by surprise.
My iPod is one of my most prized possessions; it carries a song for every occasion. I'm often behind the times with what others are listening to, but I'm okay with that. I have plenty of music from my favorite "genre": melancholy.
I didn't bring a car adapter with me to the States, so I've had to improvise. My $10 portable speakers now accompany me as I drive so that I can hear my tunage. I keep it cranked at almost-full volume and it's nowhere near as loud as I'd like it to be, but that's okay.
Because I love simply being able to hear the soundtrack of my life.