singing and getting it out

after a lot of time of thinking about it and living with it, i've decided that there is no release for me like singing.

i can't sing.

but when i do sing, when the music is loud enough and i can't necessarily hear myself missing the notes anymore and only feel that i know at the very least the veins in my neck, in my forehead, all over are straining as hard as any singer that's come across the sky yet, i know that i've let go somewhere. that something inside is looser, softer, valued. i feel better after a hard time, or even greater after a great time, or at the very least justified and evacuated. i can sing tears or laughter, or pain and desolation and feel no less affected but maybe a little less afflicted.

i can't sing well.

many times i listen to lone ladies on the stage or through my speakers and hear the justice and command they hold in a note and it physically hurts me. it seems like a flaw in the design of the body that not everyone has a mastery over every release the body could need. everyone can sneeze, everyone can scream, everyone can cry, vomit, sweat. singing to me, and singing well is becoming this necessary. there are things in there that only long notes in loud voice can exorcise.

there's something in my chest that feels related to a beast. hulking and disguised mass, growing and feeding on thoughts and confusions, upsets or unshared joys and incomplete short stories. it's towering and i'm finding it so difficult, so difficult! to find satisfying ways to keep the relationship peaceful. to understand and soothe.

i can't sing very well.

singing helps. i feel literally as if i'm singing something to sleep. or the notes are calisthenics, tiring out the energy, using it, filtering it out through a hole in my head. because it's then that i can sleep.

i can't sleep very well either.

something ought to give.