Music is consuming. Its gaping melodies open their jaws into a mouthful of empty sorrows and stolen glances we wish we’d never had. It’s poetry. Occasionally, like a new pair of jeans, it can take some getting used to. Some songs are like a bad taste in your mouth. We spit them out, while it sits there dripping with remorse and discontentment. Other songs are comfort food; like your mom’s lumpy mashed potatoes or your grandma’s homemade bread. Their sweet taste resonates for hours after the final note is played. Then there are the crying songs. Everyone has them, there’s no use denying it. They are the songs we reach out in desperation for on a day where our lives make no sense to us; clinging to the hope that someone else, preferably with a guitar, can make sense of our mess. They are the songs laced with words we could never say. They are lost. In the midst of troubling goodbyes and unspoken “I love you’s” they are lost, but the chorus remains. Giving us hope. They are the songs we play over and over until we can somehow find closure. That in those three minutes we can find the peace we crave that the artist seems to find. These kinds of songs have no winners, no victories; only a melancholy aftertaste and bitter moments alone.
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