The kind of music I like

Somebody asked me what kind of music I liked, once, many years ago. And I never knew what to answer to it, so I said, everything. Since then, my answer hasn’t changed for the question, which for some social gathering reasons gets asked a lot. I assume it connects people on some level. I could be wrong, I hear you need tweets for evidence these days.

Recently my friend and I were driving on a highway at night. It is something I could do everyday. Indian winters are a part of all the greatest stories. And what else does one want but a good story. You could display a story anytime on a magical portal and people could love it, adore it, get inspired from it. Who doesn’t want that? This ride is nothing but a story.

During this ride, every time I change to my playlist, my friend complains that I listen to sad songs. I make a sarcastic comment about his taste. This happens all the time. But this time the cold made me sensitive to silence. I heard the silence in my songs and my comfort with it. I realize now, in the way things work, that is sad. I do listen to sad songs. All the songs with sadness, hurt, angst I have heard. I can sing all of them but I won’t because who cares. My friend says he cares. I don’t believe him.

My friend tells me I have been too blunt these days. I am bordering rude. I could be a little neutral, not so critical. I am cynical. I reply with – well that’s because everything is shit. That statement is all those things, he said. But well, honestly, it is the truth.

Today evening I sat down alone, a little introspective. I sat my mind down and said to it, what have you been thinking? And it told me everything that had been going on. It pointed out all the times I had been wrong. It said, “You do listen to sad songs. That is the truth and the sarcasm proves it further.” I don’t understand my stupid mind, but I listen to it. “Also, everything being the worst is probably a truth and maybe it takes sadness to realize certain truths. But you have forgotten the truths that are not sad.” I shut up my mind. I am its owner. This time surely it is wrong. “Well you used to be really active. Mischief is something you were known for. There used to be as many highs as lows. There used to be not-sad.” There is nothing wrong with that. I tell my mind that it is nothing but a symptom of age. The old get weary. “Again that has been determined by your affinity for sadness. You believe age is just a mood in decline. You have forgotten how it feels to live on the incline.”

Well if I have forgotten it, it must be a preference of some kind. And all preferences involve a sign off from my mind. And if I did not intend to make it rhyme, then my mind must have chosen what to write. Well if my mind and I are the same, alike, who is the real slim shady?  Isn’t that the question on everyone’s mind? But I hear people have lost their minds. That is just impossible, if you ask me. Who owns who I ask.

So this is who I am. I am a person who likes sad music. I guess that’s what the new answer is going to be.



The only reason I write is because of this constant conversation.

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