Womb Time.

I believe that we spend our lives, sub consciously trying to recreate the feeling of being in the womb. Now, of course I'm stating on theory and assumption that we all had healthy womb-time. It does make some sense, so don’t stop just yet.

I'm not taking too much to Freud, but come to think about it, our womb time, theory states, must have been a state of constant euphoria and orgasma. We grow in a warm, dimly lit, comfortable little capsule, we are fed with food, oxygen, and blood; we are kept safe in this little environment. Our brains are empty, tabula rasa. We know only feeling, no scientific intelligence or knowledge. All we know is a feeling of carefree, absolute luxury. Our first experience of the world is this little cavern in our mothers.

Our next experience is probably the most traumatic in our lives. We are pushed, unwillingly, out of this little cavern, into a tight canal that squeezes, pushes, prods, until we are born out, into a cold, very bright, noisy world. It is suddenly difficult to breathe. And our bodies are left with mental and physical trauma, which very possibly stored as trauma memory in our brains as well as our muscles and tissues.

My point in all this is not to rant and blame the birthing process for all out vices and shortcomings. I want to tell you why we love music.
It’s not as strange as it sounds.

So, return to the womb. Imagine being swaddled up warm, satin blankets, with the feeling of floating. The one sound that we grow with, from the moment of conception, is the steady beat and thud of our mother’s hearts. This is our first song, the first rhythm. Like the bass it thuds on, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes all a flutter. Every time her heart beats, we feel it and we are more alive for it.
And when we leave her, the sound stops, replaced by a constant buzzing of the outside world.

All we do in our lives to achieve any sort of pleasure is to feel the same complete ecstasy of the womb. Thus, music. We listen to hear the heart beat which once assured us that we were alive and we were safe. Why else is the bass so appealing? Why do we need to have rhythm? Why do we need to have pattern? Our concept of end and beginning could very possibly be rooted with the start and stop of each heart beat.

Sigh.
Theories, theories.