The Strength Of A Song

I like to think that my closest friends who are aware of how much I loathe Patio Lanterns by Kim Mitchell smile to themselves whenever it comes on the radio. A twinkle in their eye thinking about how angry I get as soon as that chorus comes. Remember how much you loved a song, until it was overplayed, then you got sick of it, but a couple years later you hear it again and a flash flood of memories come pouring into you? Music. Imagine life without it? Some of the saddest people make the most beautiful music and I think that’s because they’re the most dedicated to filling one of our worst fears: the silence. Remember that moment you heard your favourite artists new album that just dropped. Pressed play. Blasted the speakers. You discover which song you like the most – hit repeat. There was no feeling like it. New core memories in that moment of your life begin developing without you even knowing it. Remember the first time Simple Man made sense to you after meeting her. Remember going for a long jog after a massive fight with your partner. That one track comes on shuffle. You feel it all over again. The song that first made you realize you were doing just fine with life until them, because now if you were to lose them you would be absolutely lost. You stop in your tracks with sweat pouring down your face, and a late summer storm begins to brew and the wind whips the leaves around and the sky is instantly dark but you run even harder – but in the opposite direction and burst open the door to see them and you suddenly feel so safe. When your favourite song ends on someone’s phone, but a new one doesn’t start because their battery died, and hearing the end of it was like the popping of a bubble beside your ear and no combination of noises in the world describe the way the memories of that song can disappear so suddenly. When an artist gives way too much information about their breakup and you swear and cry towards the speakers because it resonates so deeply but you’re happy you aren’t alone and screw that person who broke your heart. But you wish they’d just call. Your dad never really talked to you about music, but you’re an adult now sitting around with the family on a crisp fall night and he’s had a few too many whiskeys and starts playing The Eagles on his new record player and for the first time you see yourself in his eyes. When you lose a close friend and it hasn’t really hit you yet that you’ll never see them again, and Wish You Were Here comes on and it feels like it’s carrying your soul through the song – but after all these years you still can’t seem to sing it out loud. When you first discovered you actually really like Avenge Sevenfold cause it was on at a party and you were drunk getting double bounced on the trampoline in the yard and you were so scared but you’ve also never felt that high before. When someone you just met has the best  vibes and you’re drunk in the backseat of the packed vehicle on a Friday night and they start singing every word to a song you’ve never heard before and you’re so mesmerized by them you can’t seem to look away and you don’t even have to write down what the song was called because they’ve embedded it into your mind. When your destiny conflicts with that of the person you realize you’ve fallen in love with while driving and listening to Dancing In The Moonlight and you realize neither of you have to decide between following the others path and abandoning your own because you can take their hand and create a new one to walk together. The beauty of music is that it all starts with a feeling that is put down on paper with just 26 letters. Remember how much you loved a song, and now it’s overplayed? Instead of turning it off, absorb it. You might think back to that exact moment in 10 years. It might remind you exactly what you were feeling at that time. And it might be absolutely beautiful. 

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