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    Love So Much It Hurts

    “Do you know what it’s like to love a piece of music, or a band, so much that it hurts?”
                                       - paraphrased from Almost Famous

    “I do. And if you don’t, you’re really missing out.”
                                       - not paraphrased at all, Clint Piatelli

           I have longed to express, in a single sentence, the totality of my intense connection to music. Probably too tall of an order, given the vast scope and cavernous depth of that connection. But if my reach exceeds my grasp, so be it.
           If you don’t have a torrid love affair with music, loving it so much it hurts may be something you’ll have trouble understanding. And my follow up quote confounds things further. How the hell, you may ask, can you be missing out by not hurting? A contradiction? Only, as I said in my post Contrasting The Contrast, if you don’t know what’s behind the door.
           Well I’m here to tell you what’s behind the door. At least what’s behind my door. Through that, maybe you’ll understand me, and all intensely passionate music lovers, a little more. And if you are one of those intensely passionate music lovers yourself, maybe you’ll glean something about what’s behind your own door.
           Before I begin my internal expose, it’s worth noting that my objective in this post perfectly reflects why I write in the first place. Namely, by sharing what’s deep within me, I desire to create connections. Between you and me; between you and someone else; between you and you.
           Maybe you’ll even share your personal experience of music with me, in a comment or an email. I would love that. Because ultimately what I’m looking for with my audience is a dialogue. Not a monologue.
           Loving music, or anything else, so much that it hurts, means giving into its rapture and passion so completely that you surrender to its power and give up control. Not control of yourself, but control over what it does to you; over how much it means to you. You give up control, at least for a while, over how that something touches you. You don’t try to limit its impact on you. You’re not afraid to let it reach all the way into you and work its magic. Even if that magic makes you cry, or saddens you, or creates an unfathomable longing. Even if that magic rips out your heart.
           There is indeed magic in the music. And that magic feeds us, enriches us, adds to our lives in immeasurable ways. Magic is mysterious and ethereal, but it’s real just the same. Hardcore scientists, hear this loud and clear: just because we don’t understand magic doesn’t mean it’s not as real as the stuff we do understand. And let’s face it, as Thomas Edison, one of the most brilliant minds in history said, “We don’t know one-millionth of once percent about anything”.
           Becoming vulnerable to music is just like becoming vulnerable to anything; nature, paintings, the written word, another person. It means letting down your guard, and saying; “Okay. Move me”. Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. But, either way, you have to have your armor off. The less armor you’re wearing, the more vulnerable you become, the more you create the possibility for deep and powerful impact. Ultimately, to let it all the way in, you have to stand naked before it. At least figuratively. Although I’m certainly not going to tell you what to wear, if anything, whilst you to listen to music or read a book.
           This nakedness, this vulnerability, is what makes it possible for us to experience true love, with anything, or with anybody. You have to be willing to be hurt, to your core, or you will never experience the full power of love; love of music, love of life, love of another human being. The elation of that love can send you soaring. The pain can hurt so bad it’s almost unbearable. That’s the risk we take when we love with everything we have, with everything we are, with everything we want to be.

    ©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.

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