There are about ten songs, scattered randomly throughout my favorite playlists and albums that will never cease to transport me back to my freshman year of college. This soundtrack will always elicit the indescribable feelings of being on my own for the first time and getting to know the most incredible people.
Memories play like an expertly crafted movie montage. It simultaneously makes me smile and breaks my heart. Such a good archive of stories to recall and tell to my children one day in an attempt to convince them that I was young once too, but also a doleful reminder that times may never be that happy, carefree, and new ever again.
A lot of times, that’s why I like certain music. Because it reminds me of a time when I was listening to it, when it was the background music to my life. But then I wonder, where does my taste fit into that?
I have the same problem with all of art. I can’t listen to a song, see a painting, or watch a play and tell you definitively if I like it or not. I have to mull it over, talk about it, analyze it.
This drives me crazy. Myself and others are often annoyed by my indecisiveness. I used to think it was a people pleasing thing, but more recently I’m believing more that it’s something all it’s own.
I don’t know what I like. I don’t know what I dislike. And I certainly don’t know how to go about figuring it out.
Will I ever be able to definitively say how I feel about anything. Or will I continue to be a fickle bandwagoner?
…The saga shall continue.
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