I could get up on stage an hour from now if you were to tell me to sing a song. I would, with guitar in hand, stand in front of a microphone with a camera staring me in the eye and play. I could tell you my secrets in melodies if you wanted me to. But put a still camera in my face and tell me to look pretty and I just might die.
There’s something so strange about the act of performing that is so singular to what each performer or artist does. I write songs, I sing, I don’t read poetry. I can tell you my secrets if you let me use harmonies, but tell me to speak them and I’ll freeze. It’s pretty incredible what artists are able to do within their comfort zones. It’s also kind of beautiful what people can’t do. A painter could make the most beautiful fluid design you’ve ever seen but might stutter their speech. A dancer might be the most physically expressive person on stage but could be stone cold in conversation.
It’s a person’s insecurities many times that gives them the ability to perform; their inabilities fuel their desire for artistic perfection. All I’m sure of is that I’m forever indebted to my ability to sing my secrets. If I couldn’t do that I don’t know where I’d keep them. I’d much rather have a box full of secret melodies than a heart full of secret emotions. Although I won’t pose pretty for a picture, and I can’t recite the latest in poetry, I can sing whatever you’d like to hear.
I’m not saying I’m a self-conscious or shy person. But the amount of information I’ll sing for a stranger amounts to nothing compared with most of what I speak about. If you want to know about me, don’t ask me questions; tell me to sing.
