I have to get this down before I lose it.

The new Starsailor album is out this month, and I’m not sure if I’ll buy it. There’s something about the general sound of Starsailor songs that evoke an almost ineffable emotion in me. I never even knew they existed until last month, but for some reason, their 2001 Love Is Here album cover is oddly familiar. Every time I see the sun-washed tracks falling into the horizon, I get an odd sense of déjá vu.

As one who rarely has such an ephemeral, mystical experience, this strikes me as a extremely poignant thing. I feel as if I know this album, that I’ve seen it before, even had emotions associated with it. It’s something I can’t explain, and whether the emotions are good are bad, I can’t recall.

Their music moves me nonetheless. The chord progressions are unpredictable yet dulcet, bitter yet sweet. I can’t decide if it’s sunset or sunrise music, and the album cover serves to emphasize this equivocality. I can’t even tell if the music makes me happy or sad.

And so remains my problem. Do I want to listen to this music or not? I always find it odd that someone would not want to think about or experience something simply because it makes them sad. Doing so seems to be so cowardly, as if one is running from one’s self.

Yet the problem remains, with other music as well, and as clear as this logic is for me I find it difficult to queue up certain songs. Listening to The Postal Service brings back so many amazing, unforgettable memories, but so many painful thoughts as well.

I choose not to ignore either, and end up being emotionally torn, unclear in my heart and in my mind.

I’m thinking about going home for a little while, since I haven’t been in quite a few months. I’ve seen John and Darren through cottage trips and visits nonetheless, but I haven’t actually talked to my parents since the beginning of the summer.

There’s an Old Boys reunion dinner happening at the College some time this month, as well as Association-Day, something I haven’t attended for seven years (Brendan Fraser was in attendance the last time I went). I don’t think I’m quite ready for a reunion yet, although I’m sure if John was there I’d be fine. The focus is on five-year, 10-year, and 15-year Old Boys though, so I’d feel awkward with the abundance of younger five-year guys and the older 10-year guys there.

It would be nice to revisit the old, familiar College grounds with John after so long. I haven’t actually been back since I first started university, when John and I got together and snuck into the newly finished rec centre. My most vivid memory would be walking along the huge fields of emerald grass with John on our lunch breaks, while my least favourite memory would probably have to be the people. If Fitzgerald were to interview me for a sequel to Old Boys, I’m sure I’d have quite a few words to say.

now to calm me
this time won’t you please drive faster
roll the window down
this cool night air is curious
let the whole world look in
who cares who sees anything
I’m your passenger
I’m your passenger

—Deftones, Passenger

A few months ago I took the night bus home. I arrived around midnight, and received some terrible news. I called up John, one-thirty in the morning, and asked if he wanted to do something. John, being the perspicacious genius that he is, could sense that there was something wrong. He took me for a drive, no questions asked and let me take my time in expressing myself in what I wanted. We cruised the highways for hours, the orange glow of the city creating an artificial sunset around us while fleeting white lines joined together in languid blurriness. By the end I was much calmer, even though the situation had yet to be resolved.

I’ll never forget that night, and how good it felt to be driven somewhere, anywhere. That there was no purpose to the trip, that there was no place to be or time to be there.

I took another bus ride yesterday and it all felt the same. I could catch any bus I wanted, didn’t matter where it was going. I wasn’t worried about being late, about having to meet someone, or even about how I was getting back. I could just get on a bus, claim my favourite seat, and sit down. Someone drove me somewhere while I looked out the window, at suburbia, at pedestrians, at relationships, at buildings, at fields, at grass, at poles, at cars, at clouds, at life. I was a passenger. People would get on and off the bus and join me, adventurers on a trip to the undetermined.

It was only on this bus ride, not any other bus ride, that I was able to resolve my situation. Being distracted by anything going on around me helped me take my time in thinking things through.

I had come to the realization that the only person who could help me was myself.

That I was smart enough to avoid this, but not strong enough.

By the time I got home, after transferring three buses, my mind was much clearer. I felt rather stupid, being a person who should have known better, ashamed, being a person too weak to help myself. I had been in this situation before, but still I lost my cerebrality. I made a childish, inexperienced mistake, and paid for it, deserved it even. The only thing to comfort me in this is knowing that I’ve learned a great deal, even if it was the hard way, and that I’ll probably never make the same mistake again.

There’s something cathartic about being a passenger. It’s almost as if the driver is there for you, to take you away, to listen if you need an ear, to be quiet if you need to think.

For sometimes one does not need more than this.

It’s night and I don’t feel like sleeping. My eyes tell me I’m tired, and my muscles emphasize the point. My cat is asleep under my bed, huddled behind the skirt, waiting for me to give her the chair. A night show is playing on the Aborigal Peoples Television Network, some small budgeted production hosted by a phony man with an imperative voice. The current act, a group of three women with banshee-like voices, bang on the simple drums they hold as they sing quick moving melodic lines. My room glows blue from a single Candela perched atop my desk.

I’m in an odd mood. Not quite content, not quite lonely. I try to remain stoic nevertheless. Sometimes it feels as if the night is the only thing that accepts, the only thing that understands. Can I express my mind to you, the silent orator?

Perhaps I’ll fall asleep to some Portishead, a remnant of some pleasant memories.

Unfamiliar pillows with unfamiliar sheets.

I wonder if I come off as a person with emotional baggage. One of the (very few) things that I pride myself in is my “self-awareness”, the ability to see myself objectively, but this is a characteristic that I am unable to determine within myself. Has my past made me a person of frightening, unpersonable disposition? Do people think of me as someone with deep rooted emotional issues?

I wonder if my history even matters to others. I realize that it’s when I let my history interfere with or affect my relationships that it becomes a problem. I’m afraid, however, that I let things become affected more than I’d like, more than I understand.

The past is something that I recognize as being significant, and I try to keep it only as that. It is something that I learn from, something which can affect me and my decisions today, but not something that I should presently be dealing with.

So, is it?

Well, I’m not completely sure. On a night like tonight, when the midnight sky burns bright enough to illuminate my room, I can’t help but feel unheard, unheard in something I wish to express. What becomes this need to be understood?

It’s a voice I wish to have, to bring me closure, to let me be free.

It has taken me three hours to write this final thought, along with the resurfacing of many distracting memories. Things still feel unresolved, of course, but I have sufficiently quelled my mood until there is a more appropriate time to express myself.

When I see you again, you will understand what I’ve become, and what you’ve done to make me this way.