Obliteration by music

Sometimes I want my music to hurt. When I'm grumbling my way to work in the twilight morning, and my thoughts are a bit too honest, I'll turn the volume way, way up, and I'm the obnoxious one on the street. It's a bit masochistic, ears giving a twinge when the treble is loud and high, reminding me that music can be visceral. Piercing whines and the deep throb of bass penetrate the body on a vibrational level, making my blood shudder. The little hairs on my arms are trembling, and there's a little tickle, all over my skin. Maybe it's The Flaming Lips keening like benevolent witches, or the Rolling Stones insistent dark howl on Paint It Black, or Dungen's guitars spinning like a kaleidoscope, and I'm in sound, and past thought, just for a little while. Sometimes I'll trade off the hurt of thinking for the hurt of sound. And it's not really hurt, just distraction. But it can feel good to feel like you are just going, and not thinking at all.