It’s funny the way that things evolve. When I was younger I wore my heart on my sleeve; I was naïve and beautifully ignorant. The love songs I listened to during those days were written on the premise of cheap clichés and questions of insecurity being answered. They would fill my head with pictures of romance and instances of being swept off of my feet. Now, I juggle my heart as though it is a torch of fire. I keep it close, throw it at people (so that anyone else but me will have to take care of it) and then snatch it back when the flames have grown too large. The music I listen to has changed as well. The songs that make me wistful are twisted around stories, simple and complicated; driving down a long country road, the stripping of clothing, traveling to nowhere, tracing the caverns of someone’s spine, seeing a picture of the person whom you love. This music paints pictures in my mind of places I’ve never been, and people I have yet to meet; they’re devoid of desperation as those songs in the old days were, and instead focus on truth, purpose and whimsicality.
It’s interesting to see who appears as your experiences build and the ideas of everything you thought to be true melt away.