A thousand cuts.
My goodness, what an episode of Jessica Jones won't do for the serotonin.
Right now, I'm listening to a band called Earshot. They were part of the nu-metal wave of the early aughts, a pretty homogenous sound with only slight variance in vocals from band to band. Generally bland and angsty and simplistic, with names like Puddle of Mudd and Strata but very much my bread and butter at that time in my life.
Last year, I gave up Facebook for Lent. My Spotify at the time was connected to my Facebook account, so I was obliged to create an entirely new profile replete with new playlists and saved albums. Occasionally, I return to it, as I've grown particularly enamored of certain playlists that it would be too tedious to migrate to my main account. But, for some reason, right now, listening to Earshot doesn't catapult me back into my years as a high schooler, but rather to late winter, early spring in Paris. Speeding my thoughts towards L, who I hadn't thought of in quite some time, and working on Goliath, and that gym in the 10th around the corner from the restaurant that was attacked late last year by terrorists, and a picnic one afternoon by the Canal St-Martin.
I don't know that I've ever been rescued by a memory before, or that I had noticed it occurring at the time, caught up as I inevitably am in my own overwrought anguish and non-verbal gnashing of teeth. But I imagine it feels a little something like this. You hurt throughout the day, then you go to sleep and dream, for the first time in entirely too long, of sun hitting a river, a tower that sparkles at night, and dancing with a girl you like.
Thank you, early aughts nu-metal.
Right now, I'm listening to a band called Earshot. They were part of the nu-metal wave of the early aughts, a pretty homogenous sound with only slight variance in vocals from band to band. Generally bland and angsty and simplistic, with names like Puddle of Mudd and Strata but very much my bread and butter at that time in my life.
Last year, I gave up Facebook for Lent. My Spotify at the time was connected to my Facebook account, so I was obliged to create an entirely new profile replete with new playlists and saved albums. Occasionally, I return to it, as I've grown particularly enamored of certain playlists that it would be too tedious to migrate to my main account. But, for some reason, right now, listening to Earshot doesn't catapult me back into my years as a high schooler, but rather to late winter, early spring in Paris. Speeding my thoughts towards L, who I hadn't thought of in quite some time, and working on Goliath, and that gym in the 10th around the corner from the restaurant that was attacked late last year by terrorists, and a picnic one afternoon by the Canal St-Martin.
I don't know that I've ever been rescued by a memory before, or that I had noticed it occurring at the time, caught up as I inevitably am in my own overwrought anguish and non-verbal gnashing of teeth. But I imagine it feels a little something like this. You hurt throughout the day, then you go to sleep and dream, for the first time in entirely too long, of sun hitting a river, a tower that sparkles at night, and dancing with a girl you like.
Thank you, early aughts nu-metal.