It's a few weeks past the fact, but I'm still mourning the tiny chip of my heart that broke off when I heard that R.E.M. gracefully ended their career. I listened to Nightswimming on repeat in my high school boyfriend's bedroom, the summer before we went away to college. Talking, dreaming, kissing, fighting - embarrassingly intent on planning out a future that I'd later learn had no chance at all. I wish that relationship had ended as sweetly as the band's. I'm no Michael Stipe.
When I was young these types of songs helped me think about the future. It's that piano baseline, you know - it moves the brain to create. Now when I hear them, my mind hands me scenes from my past. What does that mean? Sometimes I worry that my nostalgia muscle is so much stronger than my anticipation muscle. I'm a reminiscer. A rememberer. A protector of dear snippets. A worrier. A dissatisfied optimist prone to wallowing contentedly in that which is done.
Holy shit, that was my senior year, looking at yellow leaves, listening to this album, also thinking about the future. Sometimes, now though, I avoid remembering.
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