Well on the road to sensibleness…..?

Why is it strangely fascinating to read the private musings of an anguished soul, even if (sometimes especially if) they contain references the significance or nature of which are known only to the writer (and, of course, any other person involved)?

There must be hundreds (if not thousands) of songs out there that have been written based upon bitter (or happy) experience – the more you can relate to the words almost raises the song in your estimation. You would expect to be quite irritated that you don’t know the circumstances that have prompted them to be written, but, for me, that frustration is just not there. I find it simply perverse that I can readily accept the willingness – probably more the need – of the writer to share his or her emotions with complete strangers. How maudlin is that for a wintry November evening?

As I write this, I am listening to Beatles albums - Help! at the moment, Track 12, I’ve Just Seen A Face.

Does this make me sensible all of a sudden?