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Isn't this...where we came in?

Life has a funny way of reminding you about the past even while you’re trying to live in the present. The other day, a friend and I set out to go to a political rally -- I was actually helping him with some work for his respective party. The drive ahead was about a two hour endeavor, so beforehand I had been thinking about what music to listen to on the way down, a decision that holds no small gravity to me.

Scrolling through the myriad disjointed songs I glued together into a mismatched playlist over the past few years, I came upon my collection of The Wall by Pink Floyd.

Now, I haven’t listened to The Wall for almost a year, knowing that there are some feelings that I associate with the album. The story, the character and the presentation all swirl together for me until I feel I’m looking in a mirror; until the lines between the plaintive Pink and I disperse.

Ignoring my own knowledge of what lay in wait for me in favor of introducing one of my few and best friends to an album that holds more depth to me than the Pacific, I decided to put it on. If you know the album, you know that it starts from young childhood, when everything was blue sky and smiles were genuine.

But before too long, we learn about an absent father, an overly protective and possibly abusive mother. We learn about an isolated soul who is persecuted by not only by his teachers, but his peers. We learn about how one begins to build a wall. And so the mirror begins to materialize for me.

To say that I am callous and unemotional would be to say that you only know me on the surface. I present a hard exterior and a strong disposition to always be stoic, but truly I am ruled by my emotions. The tumultuous sea inside me holds more sway over my body and my mind than rationalism or reason, especially when I am exposed to myself in all it’s horror and disfigurement.

We arrived at ‘Mother’ when I had hit the highway. Black asphalt spun by and the trees and mountains loomed in the distance in a majesty to move even Epictitus. I have never quite been able to listen to ‘Mother’ in a cold, sober way. No matter how hard I try, there is always something that stirs in me, that forces its way into the forefront of my mind, that enfolds me in its dark shroud until it is all that matters.

This time was no different.

Mother’s going to make all of your nightmare come true. Mother’s going to put all of her fears into you.

The road began to wash out like watercolors, the mountains blurring into disfigurement. My throat caught, constricted. I had to force breath into my lungs to keep quiet.

Though my eyes burned I kept my hands away. I still am unable to reveal this side of myself. To anyone.

From there, it’s downhill for me until the attempted suicide, until the A side runs dry and the story waits on the other side.

I’m not sure why I wrote this, and I’m even less sure as to why I’m putting this out here for others to read. I know that it wasn’t exactly exciting to read nor well put together, but that, in the end, describes me perfectly. I’m not exciting and everything inside of me makes no sense, but for some reason I feel the need to share it.

I needed to write something again and this had to be it, I hope you all understand.


When I listen to The Wall, I almost always listen to it in it's entirety. It is at the pinnacle of Album Rock of the 1970's (although the movie was '82).

It also reaches down to a place in me. A very dark place. I try not to go there often. Pink Floyd's music serves as my Virgil across the River Styx.
I feel you man. Completely different music tastes. But music hits us the same way.

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