Some music was written to be listened to. It evokes no true emotion, nothing of any sustenance. It is real music, of course; I do not think that there is such thing as fake music. It is still art, but it is easily compared to a painting of cows standing in a field, or a sailboat on an undisturbed lake. It is pretty music, leaving the taste of vanilla behind on your tongue, and maybe a slightly dumb-looking grin on your face. Still, I admire this music for its impeccable harmonies, flawless rhythms, and unreasonable ability to make people happy.
Other music was written as an outlet. Maybe it was never even intended to reach the ears of anyone other than the composer. Maybe it was a midnight scribble written in a cold sweat under the light of a full moon. Maybe it was the name of a haunting lover, woven into some nostalgic melody, so sad and so beautiful. It is emotion in it's purest form, other than tears fallen, or the echoing cry of crazed anguish. This music leaves behind the taste of a last kiss, or sometimes an ocean breeze. It digs up things you'd thought you had forgotten. It fills you up in a way that makes you want to dance. This music puts everything in perspective and grounds you, and then lifts you off of your feet, turning your world upside down again.
Music exists for a reason. Maybe it was meant to be listened to, or maybe it was meant to be a last saving grace for those who can't find another way out of their own minds. Either way, it leads us on to some other place, rescuing us from ourselves and leading us to a place where we can just exist.