I like to imagine lyrics for songs.
It’s a shame I’m tone deaf, what with having all these wonderful words floating in my head, but no music to set them to. I think it all stems back to that flu I had when I was eight years old.
Or was I nine?
Until then, I possessed what could be called ‘perfect pitch’. Loosely termed, of course, but perfect nonetheless: call out nearly any note and I could hum it to within a semitone or two, but thanks to a nagging ear infection, all of that musical ability somehow floated out the window.
It was almost as disappointing as that time I lost all my math skills to a nasty sinus infection, and not to mention painful. I’m telling you, it felt as though a rather large person had kicked a hole through my tympanum using a pair of steel-toed boots.
Tympanum is Latin for ‘ear drum’, by the way. I don’t usually use Latin in my every day doings, but this is a public diary and what better way to come across as learned than to toss about body parts using a dead language or two. (One has to be careful how one pronounces ‘learned’, for if it comes out in only one syllable, one could wind up looking the exact opposite.)
A terrible earache, it was. Had me walking into walls, it did. But that was years ago and not something on which I like to dwell. So let’s get back to what I was really thinking when I began writing this silly entry: I write words for songs that don’t exist.
Or maybe they do and I am just not able to recognize them.
So what would that make me? A lyricist? I’m not sure I like that: it sounds too wimpy. Like ‘florist’ or ‘sadist’. It’s the ‘ist’ that does it, makes the stupid word sound French. So what else could I be? Besides a ‘lyricist’, I mean. ‘Poet’ maybe? No, I’m too silly for that.
How about just waiting?