Mendelssohn

I listened at the concert to Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64, last night, and I realized that no matter how beautiful and how inspiring a piece of music is, I don't let myself be inspired and I haven't for a long time. There's a protective coating around my heart. I put it there. Of course, beyond the fact that I remembered it was Mendelssohn, I didn't remember which piece it was; I referenced the program I brought home so I could provide that bit of detail here. I am incapable of remembering those kind of details; I thought it would lend a bit of weight to this entry. I also thought of calling this entry, "How Mendelssohn Broke My Heart," but that sounded a bit affected and even more pretentious than the title I chose. And it would be ironic because he didn't break my heart in the traditional sense, he broke my heart in that for a moment I remembered what it was like to really dream again, or rather he broke the shell that has encased my heart; well, maybe not broke it, just cracked it a bit.