When our brains begin to realize we’re going to live longer than 20 years, the compression algorithms involved in storing memories need to be optimized. The brain realizes it’s going to have to store more than a few summers and the exact taste of a glass of lemonade. The basic unit of storage has to change; it’s a simple issue of capacity. Time is chunked in units of one season, then one year; a decade. Details have their jagged edges sanded down, entire little lifetimes adopt a hazy dreamlike quality, are shimmering flashbacks complete with harp flourishes. Then one day, you wake up to find the world has shifted, lurched forward as a whole, without you. A lot can happen in 5 years; but it’s even easier for nothing to happen; to have your shingles whipped loose by the wind, have weeds push up through your floorboards, to be stripped to your frame and reclaimed by the field. To get a pretty sweet beer gut.
Every love song is really a song about time - about time gone by, about the inability to change the past, about fleeting moments of passable pleasantness, tiny bearable islands in a heaving ocean of shit. They only make sense in the context of time, only made poignant by the fleeting nature of the subject. Things are never good for long - that’s the bad news. But they’re never bad for that long either and you’re dead forever.
Hey, thanks for the heads up, atane. Our fact-checking intern (Gala; she’s from a little fishing village on Spain’s east coast - quite a lovely girl. Skin like a delicious caramel frappucino!) was unfortunately fired due to this oversight. Gala, if you’re reading this, a few of your camisoles are still at my place - I left them at the base of the teak sculpture of Alan Turing in the rectory. So again, thanks for the heads up Atane! Gala wanted me to pass along her thanks too - in her words, ‘Espero que son devorados por los jabalíes’ which I *believe* - if my spanish isn’t too rusty - translates loosely to ‘2 ham sandwiches and an orange soda’. At any rate, god bless and godspeed, atane!