J.S. Bach and His Partita No. 2 in D minor

Ever since a friend played this piece earlier in the year, I have not been able to stop listening to it. Why is unclear, but that doesn't make the compulsion any less powerful; in fact, if anything, it is the very piece's mysterious quality that keeps me bound to it. Somehow, despite having played hundreds of times in my headphones, it continues to sound fresh, almost organic, as if the piece were secretly rearranging itself every time.

This is not insignificant. Why can only be explained by a personal confession of apostasy. It began in high school with an early falling out with 'main-stream, commercial' music. This disillusionment led me to embrace the redemptive message of the independent music movement, very popular at the time. 'Indie' music was, much to my dismay, a sham. When I discovered my messiah to be false, a regular Sabattai Zevi, I returned to the mundane, but occasionally beautiful world of pop music, a prodigal son, but also a broken man. I let radio music keep me alive - low nourishment, quick buzz hooks, beats that keep the body active, fending off decay and apathy. It wasn't much of existence, but I couldn't complain. Sure, I still kept tabs on indie music, but no longer a true believer, my curiosity was infused with a twisted disdain and loathing, which was, undoubtedly, unhealthy for my soul. Music had ceased to delight me. No longer did I believe in its powers; nor, I thought, would I ever again.

I was wrong. One day this past April (?), a saw a miracle, a Dirty Projector's concert. Suddenly, I felt again. Swept off my feet, elevated by the tight harmonies and strong rhythms, my soul awakened - but only for a moment, this was no reconversion experience; I was not shaken, only stirred. Then, around that same time, a friend preformed Bach's Partitat No.2 in D minor, and sweet music, once again, penetrated the depths of my hard heart; I almost repented there, on the spot - yet again, I resisted. Now, I continue to listen, testing this piece to see if it is a sham, waiting for the all-telling dull resentment and the hateful desensitization to once again arise. But, I wonder, could I be wrong?