On the days I hate music, I entertain silence, in a sense.
I stifle one music and greet another: Silence accompanied by the soundscape.
In my car, windows rolled up. The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.
The silence I sing ain't so quiet; tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome, the droning hum of the engine, the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.
I hear these songs.
I roll down the window; I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars. I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer. I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway. I hear the light treading of the jogger making her way down the eternal sidewalk. I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops. I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket (where Allen and Walt linger). I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays. I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window. I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement. I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.
The wind carries the tune to me, and I hum along.
The days I hate music are the days I remember why we make it in the first place.