My life feels a bit hollow without music these last few months. No pianos or guitars being played around me, so I've spent more time thinking, writing, dreaming. I'm coming to discover that I am an expressionist- not a member of the early 20th century art movement originating in Germany (although the article I just read on expressionism was fascinating), but rather someone who thrives on releasing the things that are inside of me. I believe in the world that is around me, but I find myself flowing through it most easily when I can express my mind and my emotion and my soul. Openness is so essential to who I am. Discretion, of course, is an important obligatory factor: I can't tell everyone everything. In fact, some pieces of my soul should never be shared. I have secret places that I treasure very much. Some of them are embedded within songs- the rise and fall of melodies splashing over each other, triads and inversions mapping the twisting passages of the language of my heart. It is a messy kind of expression at times; even with my words, I cannot always find the right vessel through which to speak. My thoughts, as with all thoughts of mankind, are incomplete: the edges and illogical ends are propped up and forgiven by emotional matter, by intuitions, by spirit. None of these exist in their full fledged form outside, not in the warm air, not in the impressions and judgments of those people around me. Of course I am misunderstood: are not we all? But the beauty in life, at least as I have come to encounter it, is discovered when expression meets expression, when hearts are warmed by other hearts, and when humanity is kissed by the sustaining wonder of eternity.