20091124
20091123
Now the days go by so fast
I wrote this a while back about the song A Long December by The Counting Crows, but it still rings true for me...
"A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin
Now the days go by so fast
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think that I could be forgiven...I wish you would
The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think you might come to California...I think you should
Drove up to hillside manor sometime after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her
And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass
And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in Hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean...I guess I should"
Every time I hear that song, I'm back in the summer of 1996 on an early Saturday afternoon, laying on my bed, on top of the pink and purple heart-patterned sheets, crying bitterly and silently because my parents had sent me to my room for a time out over refusing to take a nap because I wasn't tired. I could hear the song filtering through my door from the living room to my bedroom. My parents had shut my blind since I was supposed to be sleeping, but it couldn't hide the stray rays of sunshine whispering through the shades to remind me of my imprisonment. But there weren't enough taunting streams of light shining through my blind to keep my room from getting that depressed, melancholy shadow that rooms seem to always get when you are in them but they still feel empty. I was devastated. I looked forward to the weekends like holidays because my daddy was home for work and I could play with him. I didn't want to spend my precious Saturday watching the clock tick; I wanted to spend it dancing to the music in the living room with Daddy. I could faintly hear him singing along to the chorus, and I got the lump in my throat I was accustomed to getting when I didn't get my way. The music and my childishly evanescent anger eventually faded. When I woke up thirty-minutes later, resentful and irritated at myself for having fallen asleep, the CD had finished playing. But it didn't matter anymore because my dad had just walked into my room to wake me up from my nap. He opened the blind, filling the room with freedom, and hugged me. My long December was over and I was back to enjoying my summer afternoon.
At the time, I was too young to truly understand the lyrics, but the song still had meaning to me. Rather than understand the lyrics, I felt the music. The first notes of the piano in the intro had a feeling assigned to them, as did the rest of the song's notes. Together the full song comprised a confused conglomeration of emotion. It wasn't necessarily sad, but it wasn't completely happy either. It was as close to bitter sweet as a five year old can come to comprehending. I was – and still am – very introspective and reflective for my age. I sensed that the times I was enjoying as a child were passing by quickly. My parents would warn me to not wish I was older like all kids do wanting to be "grown up", and to just enjoy the present. Every child wonders in awe at how much more fun it must be to be older. I couldn't help but look forward to the mystery of what it would be like to be a young adult, but I took their advice to heart more than they probably thought I would. I thought about how great it would be to be older, but I seldom daydreamed of my older self without solemnly realizing that I would miss being young. I tried to not get my hopes up so that when I was older I would not be so disappointed. I hoped to avoid the imminent disillusionment of what it was like to be older by never creating the illusion in the first place. The thought of getting older was exciting and depressing at the same time. That song embodied that suffocating feeling of the passing of time when all you want is for it to slow down so you can catch up.
Now, in the spring of 2007, I lay on my bed singing along. I know all the words, I understand them, and I breathe them out like a sigh from my memory. Each note still carries a certain feeling, but now the feeling that I associate with it is painfully recognizable. For each strum of the guitar strings, there is a resonance on my memory. I do miss being little. And getting older is depressing. Now I take naps because I am tired, or because I don't want the burden of being awake. The time I spend alone in my room with the blind shutting out the rest of the world is voluntary. On weekends, I want to spend time with a guy, but it's not my daddy, and whoever he is will inevitably end up being another sad note in the song. But I still strive to follow the same advice and not look forward too eagerly to a time when I will be out on my own and actually "grown up". I try to live in the moment and cherish what I have here and now…but at what point do you get so caught up in trying to hold onto a moment, that you're no longer living in it? And when I'm not enjoying life, I feel guilty for wasting the most precious thing I have – time – on something as worthless as depression. Decembers now are longer than thirty-minute time-outs and childish temper tantrums. They seem to stretch out over an entire year. But as I lay in bed, I wonder the same thing I did 11 years ago: will this year be better than the last?
"A long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leavin
Now the days go by so fast
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think that I could be forgiven...I wish you would
The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl
And it's one more day up in the canyons
And it's one more night in Hollywood
If you think you might come to California...I think you should
Drove up to hillside manor sometime after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,
Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her
And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass
And it's one more day up in the canyon
And it's one more night in Hollywood
It's been so long since I've seen the ocean...I guess I should"
Every time I hear that song, I'm back in the summer of 1996 on an early Saturday afternoon, laying on my bed, on top of the pink and purple heart-patterned sheets, crying bitterly and silently because my parents had sent me to my room for a time out over refusing to take a nap because I wasn't tired. I could hear the song filtering through my door from the living room to my bedroom. My parents had shut my blind since I was supposed to be sleeping, but it couldn't hide the stray rays of sunshine whispering through the shades to remind me of my imprisonment. But there weren't enough taunting streams of light shining through my blind to keep my room from getting that depressed, melancholy shadow that rooms seem to always get when you are in them but they still feel empty. I was devastated. I looked forward to the weekends like holidays because my daddy was home for work and I could play with him. I didn't want to spend my precious Saturday watching the clock tick; I wanted to spend it dancing to the music in the living room with Daddy. I could faintly hear him singing along to the chorus, and I got the lump in my throat I was accustomed to getting when I didn't get my way. The music and my childishly evanescent anger eventually faded. When I woke up thirty-minutes later, resentful and irritated at myself for having fallen asleep, the CD had finished playing. But it didn't matter anymore because my dad had just walked into my room to wake me up from my nap. He opened the blind, filling the room with freedom, and hugged me. My long December was over and I was back to enjoying my summer afternoon.
At the time, I was too young to truly understand the lyrics, but the song still had meaning to me. Rather than understand the lyrics, I felt the music. The first notes of the piano in the intro had a feeling assigned to them, as did the rest of the song's notes. Together the full song comprised a confused conglomeration of emotion. It wasn't necessarily sad, but it wasn't completely happy either. It was as close to bitter sweet as a five year old can come to comprehending. I was – and still am – very introspective and reflective for my age. I sensed that the times I was enjoying as a child were passing by quickly. My parents would warn me to not wish I was older like all kids do wanting to be "grown up", and to just enjoy the present. Every child wonders in awe at how much more fun it must be to be older. I couldn't help but look forward to the mystery of what it would be like to be a young adult, but I took their advice to heart more than they probably thought I would. I thought about how great it would be to be older, but I seldom daydreamed of my older self without solemnly realizing that I would miss being young. I tried to not get my hopes up so that when I was older I would not be so disappointed. I hoped to avoid the imminent disillusionment of what it was like to be older by never creating the illusion in the first place. The thought of getting older was exciting and depressing at the same time. That song embodied that suffocating feeling of the passing of time when all you want is for it to slow down so you can catch up.
Now, in the spring of 2007, I lay on my bed singing along. I know all the words, I understand them, and I breathe them out like a sigh from my memory. Each note still carries a certain feeling, but now the feeling that I associate with it is painfully recognizable. For each strum of the guitar strings, there is a resonance on my memory. I do miss being little. And getting older is depressing. Now I take naps because I am tired, or because I don't want the burden of being awake. The time I spend alone in my room with the blind shutting out the rest of the world is voluntary. On weekends, I want to spend time with a guy, but it's not my daddy, and whoever he is will inevitably end up being another sad note in the song. But I still strive to follow the same advice and not look forward too eagerly to a time when I will be out on my own and actually "grown up". I try to live in the moment and cherish what I have here and now…but at what point do you get so caught up in trying to hold onto a moment, that you're no longer living in it? And when I'm not enjoying life, I feel guilty for wasting the most precious thing I have – time – on something as worthless as depression. Decembers now are longer than thirty-minute time-outs and childish temper tantrums. They seem to stretch out over an entire year. But as I lay in bed, I wonder the same thing I did 11 years ago: will this year be better than the last?
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