The other night I stayed up listening to transatlanticism, front to back for the first time in years. I appreciated it for what it truly is in all its glory. 16-year-old me, listening to it for the first time, couldn't resonate to what it really stresses and to the story that is narrated.
No other piece of art has talked of love in such ways. Of the messy face of love, of the chaotic and painful side of it. Of the love that roots itself deep into us with no plan of ever leaving.
Beginnings. Expectations. Attempting and hoping for the impossible. Attachment. Resistance. Adoration. Uncertainty. Memories creeping in. Fading. Doubting. Downfall. Recollection. Repetition. Blight. Anxiety. Stagnation. Lack of courage. Silence. Heartbreak. Let down. Confessions. Honesty. Emptiness. Distance. Longing. Complexity. Desperation. Familiarity. Candid moments. Realization. Promises. Wilting. Drowning in endless blue. Numbing. Exploration. Sweetness. Purity. Enthusiasm. Clumsiness. Words overdue. Transparency. Separation. Catharsis. Endings.
I guess everything feels more intense when it is 3am.
~excerpt from my journal
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