I talk about a song on the Moana soundtrack

I think there’s a certain thrillĀ in anticipation of listening to a song for the first time, expecting to like it, particularly when the song starts just the way that’s right for your ears and only gets better.

I have abundant expectations for Moana. A Polynesian princess? Hell yes! And for the soundtrack, Alessia Cara recordedĀ How Far I’ll Go, which is pretty fitting considering the state of the popular music world right now. She has a unique voice in that the timbre is the appeal, not necessarily her sheer singing skill. She just sounds good. The song has clear EDM influences in its production, and the chord progression is very common in pop music. So it’s easy to like if you don’t completely abhor EDM music and its subtypes. My only complaint is that, though the key change is not unwelcome, it was not very well done; the transition could’ve been much smoother.

This kind of music, specifically the mood the chord progression creates, particularly in the context of a Disney film, make me excited to fall in love with another story.

On Sparks

“We were never in love, but oh, God, we could have been.”

You are the last to leave my room, though I tried to nonverbally the whole evening to ensure that this was not my intention. We stand and talk about nothing, but it all sounds so clear when you say it. I do not know why you are still here in my dorm room or why I do not know what I am feeling. I am usually so able to remain outside my consciousness and stay logical, but right now I understand only that our words are knocking on a door we are not allowed to open. What we are doing is not flirting; at least, it is not flirting in the form that I am so used to seeing.

You see, what we are doing is the ghostly, also intangible version of flirting; whatever normal flirting is, cut in half, minced, ground, and then grated through a cheese grater after the customer says “Enough” after 0.5 seconds. It is so light that I can barely see it is there. I have only the slightest hint of confirmation when you say you should shower so you step outside my room.
You are standing in the hallway when you bend down to tie your shoe. I bend down too because I plan on untying your shoe because I want you to smile at me. But as I crouch down, waiting eagerly, starting intently at that damn shoelace, I notice you look up, your face much closer to mine than I think either of us expect, and your eyes are wide and outshine any other feature on your face. You stare at me with a slight grin on your face. This is when I know. Bad timing though because this knowledge takes over me and I freeze. I do not know where to look so I stand.

I do not think moments like this happen every day. We had moments of sparks while we spoke of nothing in my room, but this was a flare, brighter than any spark and just as quick to evaporate. But flares can leave scars on the surface. That is what you have done.

I want to think that this was all coincidence and that my search for something remarkable is polluting my thoughts, but I have to believe this was a real moment of electricity.

I talk about water families

Family in the important sense of the word.

I have a very good friend whose family basically adopted me, but the thing is that even if I were never to have met them, they would be my family anyway.

My friend has always been my sister, and her brothers and sisters my brothers and sisters, but even though we did not meet until about a year and a half ago, people like them have been the world for decades.

I think that is the beautiful thing about family. They have been family all along.

On Nights

Nights without stars do not interest me.

The moon knows this and so once a month she shines beyond all the stars of the night.

It does not say much of me to dismiss a starless night, but it says less of the moon who thinks she must wait a month before shining her light wholly and brilliantly.

Though, I can say the moon is held highly because who else can brave the unending army of stars and appear to us even brighter than a universe?

I talk about old love

I am a firm believer in love, but I think, when it comes to romance, that I am looking for someone with whom I feel a warmth between a furnace and a candle.

When I imagine the kind of love I want to have today and tomorrow and twenty and sixty years from now, I see the bursts of light appear periodically, the kind of light that fills me up like the sun behind clouds. I also see the flickers that speak in the silence, quietly asserting its own presence. But mostly I see the steady fire around which people share themselves. I call this fire old love.

To me, old love is not necessarily love that has lasted or love by and from our parents and grandparents, though it is not unlike these things. Specifically, I consider old love that love which, like wine or good friends or meaningful habits, has aged into elegance; that is to say, excess has been eroded away. What remains is love that burns steadily and can be sustained easily.

Old love is what I see when I think about my future. It is what fills me when I think about my past. And when I find someone who burns with such a flame, it will be what I see in my present as I close my eyes and feel my heart.

I write lyrics, 1

I wanted to fall in love

With no one but you

I saw you in Adventureland

Even then, I knew

My future flashed before my eyes

And all I saw was you.


A warm night in summer

Twilight burning out

I could feel your presence

Change the air around

The air inside my lungs

Electric now


I wish I had a ring back then

I’d marry you every day

You’re why I believe in love

I dream you feel the same

I think I have always known, but the best way for me to hone a craft is to put in the sheer time. So this is me, putting in the sheer time.

Tonight, my goal was to write the lyrics to a song. I have done that. There is no melody or accompaniment, but those were not the goal tonight.

13 Dec 15

EDIT: I think a 2,1,7 – 1,7,6 approach may work here.

I talk about a proposal idea

My Proposal: a draft.

Quiet love, I think, is my favorite kind. Of the millions of kinds of love out there, quiet love strikes me most frequently.

And Sara Bareilles has a performance of Coldplay’s song Yellow, and all I could feel during it was quiet love and a need to write.

Some pretext:

  • Please just assume that all the following feelings are reciprocated. It is much more fulfilling that way.
  • Play her cover of Yellow while reading.
  • The lyrics within the writing shouldn’t dictate your reading pace.

Continue reading “I talk about a proposal idea”

I talk about love

Maybe I have been out of a relationship for too long during what is usually considered a critical time period for developing relationships.

I have no idea what a relationship nowadays is supposed to be like. I have only my influenced ideas and my damn good past relationship off which to base my expectations for a relationship in this decade.

For me, everything in life, relationships included, is about balance. For me, balance is the key to having a fulfilling relationship. For me, balance, or the lack thereof, is why I ended my more-than-solid relationship.

Nearly three years ago, there was a girl, whom I will refer to as June. As far as I could tell, June was in love with me. I loved June, but I was not in love with her.

I know what you’re thinking. “Really, what is difference, if there even is one?” I think the definition varies slightly from person to person. The best way I can describe it is through a How I Met Your Mother reference. Watch the episode Farhampton, the season eight opener. What it all boiled to was that Robin was almost his soulmate, but not quite, while the Mother was the almighty One (the ending of this series is discussion for another day). Robin, as I see it, is the one he loved. And Tracy (the Mother) is the one with whom he was in love. She was the one who not only tolerated all his little quirks but actually kind of liked them. (I guess the argument could be made that Victoria fulfilled these prerequisites. But again, for another day.)

So June. We would go out on dates on every month-iversary, which I loved. I loved going to pretty places lit by beautiful lights and having someone happy and wonderful next to me. She would come to my house, and we would sleep together under the warmth of my blanket. I loved her hands touching my face. We would have conversations about God-knows-what. I loved our handshake.

These are things that are not required in a successful relationship, but I believe they are very good, small things to share with someone. But among the things we shared, arguments, miscommunication, and a general lack of common interest are not things that one wants. In these things, there was never balance; there was never a moment when I thought, “We could build something great from here.”

If I had to write a book about love, I think this would be a fitting prologue.

I always thought the way a singer pronounced the word “heart” in their song was somehow indicative of their heart.

I talk about ink

There are two very distinct ways to feel about tattoos, apparently. I think there were, actually, but today most people fall under the first derivative of the bell curve. Am I using these statistics terms correctly? I sure hope so.

Before, one either maligned those who got inked or was the one that got inked. But it really boiled down to thinking of tattoos as either poison or art. But I think that most of the people who judged a book by its cover are dead or dying (sorry), so what is left is a group of people who want tattoos or have tattoos. But there is a small third group (maybe more, but they are irrelevant here) wherein people who neither have nor want one exist. But their distinction from the majority does not signify anything particularly important about them. They exist, and that is it.

What I am really trying to say is that I belong in this third group. I have no tattoos, and I have none. I have nothing against it, really. But I also don’t have much in favor of it. Nothing of corporeal form has struck me as significant enough to permanently emblazon onto my skin. There is always a chance, though, that something may eventually present itself.

If I had to get a tattoo, I would really have no idea what to get. That is how I am sure that I do not care for them. However, I have seen photos of tattoos that were carbon copies (not literally, you nut) of the person’s parent(s)’s handwriting, an idea I really, really admire. The thing is that in most cases, the person’s parent(s) died of something other than old age or diseases that accompany it. I would not feel right getting such a tattoo unless I were confronted with similar circumstances. And, like most anyone ever, I would rather not face such a thing.

Basically, if asked what tattoo I would get in the future, I have no reasonable answer.

Maybe the name “ANDY” with a backward “N” on the bottom of my foot.

Continue reading “I talk about ink”

I talk about repentance

Starting this particular string of thoughts has been especially difficult considering the sheer emotional breadth of the topic.

I don’t have many regrets, but among the handful (maybe even less than a handful) is my less-than-favorable relationship with my brother, especially when we were younger. I feel the repercussions now. I feel largely responsible for our personality differences, and I feel it will eat at me slowly until I take my last breathe. Even now, as I write this, I feel the shock waves that accompany actions of such magnitude.

I have hazy memories of him as a child, sort of mischievous but altogether a happy kid. But I think years of shunning him and calling him names and trying to exclude him, all things only the worst of the worst older brothers do, took control subconsciously within him. Of course, I am no psychologist, nor am I anyone with knowledge pertaining to this issue credible enough to take seriously, but I’ve always been good at combining my gut feelings with very good educated guesses and arriving at plausible conclusions.

He’s quiet and reserved now (around me. He may be different around his friends in college. I know he’s different around my cousins.), which isn’t necessarily bad. He even still has time to change. College has that kind of effect on people who pass through. Like light through a prism. But I can’t help but think that were I the kind of older brother I would want as a boy, he would be more like me.

But I’m thinking now: Isn’t that very narcissistic of me? How vain am I to think that my brother is emotionally affected because he isn’t like me?

Maybe it’s selfishness. I don’t deny the plausibility. But I still do regret being a dick to him for so long during a period in which he was so vulnerable. And I think it actually has affected him, at least a little. Maybe it’s positive. Maybe not. Only he really knows.

As for now, all I can really do is talk to him and be the best brother I can. He deserves more than that, but it’s all I have.