I Have A Confession

Singing is agony.

Singing is ecstasy.

Here's the thing, I love singing. There is little that I love more than hitting the perfect note at the perfect time in perfect pitch. But 98% of the time I fail utterly. I know I am capable of so much more. I can do better!

For me, music is like air. I crave it, need it. But it's a double edged sword. It cuts me. Makes me feel...everything. On top of the world. Like I could do anything. And in the same breath, insignificant. An utter failure.

Sometimes when I hear a song, I just know that I could sing it better, with more passion, more heart, more...just more.

And sometimes (most of the time) I hear a song and I know deep down that I'm wasting dreams. I may as well pretend that someday, if I wish and pray hard enough, I'll grow fins and meet King Triton. And it makes me sick, physically sick to my stomach. I could never rival, even remotely come close, to...I don't know. This idea. This...beauty. This bittersweet agony. There are some voices that make your heart break in the most beautiful and exquisite delight. And let's face it. That just ain't me.

But I want it so much to be! It's like wishing for the moon. No matter how fast you run at the horizon, no matter far you reach, it's always just out of grasp. A whole world away.  I wish I could convey to you how much I long for more talent, more direction, more control. Like a starving child at the window of a bakery.

Maybe someday I'll find the guts to do something about. I just wish I knew what that something was.

Sometimes your greatest ecstasy is your deepest agony.