We all have those songs – the ones that dripped into our ears while the world burned. The ones that fed us when we couldn’t eat.
This song is everything. It is all I have.
I lean on those songs when I’m searching for something, to anchor me to a boy who had no idea what he was doing, but could find words with great ease. The boy lives in the melodies of these songs. He is fearless and sad. He is an idiot.
He was me.
Look at that kid. So worried about existing. Using emotion and repetition, he filled songs with an easy power that still burns when their lyrics hit my ears. The problem? That power is old, and is fuelled mainly by hurt and confusion.
I’ve started to have a complicated relationship with these songs. On the one hand, they will often galvanize my writing process. On the other… I’m afraid that I’m tying my creative process to sad ideas of who I used to be, and not the person that I am. The songs are nothing more than a crutch, but I often find I can’t write without them.
So this is where I am right now: someone trying to move forward while constantly staring back at the past. To that end, I’ve re-written this post four times, attempting to find a truth I haven’t quite been able to grasp. I doubt I’ll find it today.
As a consolation prize for us all, I offer you this: the song that started me down this road. If you can help me figure out what it all means, I’ll be eternally grateful.
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