I used to be afraid of music. When I was younger, I couldn’t understand why there were so many happy faces on the nights the fireworks went off. My chest hurt with no warning, and the ground threatened to crumble beneath my feet. Others told me this wasn’t music, but it felt just the same as the music that tore through the town when the annual parade marched through it. I was told that my fear was a matter of control, not avoidance, by a man who demanded authority by virtue of the framed diplomas hanging on his wall. I had never considered making music of my own, but wondered if there was any truth in the textbooks that were meant to assign meaning to life.

When I bought my first drum set, the smooth surface of the snares and cool metal cymbals warned me for the physically uprooting sensation. The shape of the instruments was purposeful, with each detail crafted to support the rhythm. With slow progress, the same feeling that once haunted me became a comforting buzz, unlike any I’d felt from the strongest of red wines, or the awakening from a cold night’s slumber. I never performed my music, and instead kept the art as a personal treasure. I was selfish because I needed to be, and that’s how I’ve assigned meaning to my life.