Ode to Yesteryear

There's that young, restless heart again. So wily, so off the cuff. Actually, I don't think that I wore cuffs often enough to consider any of my actions not riddled with spontaneity.

Late nights, tired eyes, rock and roll music that really makes my heart feel like it was all a dream until now. Waking up, driving to numb, I find things that pull me back to getting butterflies and having less of an iron constitution.

Reality hits, the record player screeches to a halt. I forgot to water the plants, I have two bills and freelance bids due that I'd much rather bid adieu. The clock ticks on, and there's not a solitary thing I can do to stop it. Sadly, I never learned French like I wanted to, and I haven't gotten to that washboard physique that would make me photo worthy of Billboard's Hit 100 chart in a nice modern gentleman's suit. Or at least be friends with Ryan Gosling.

I was never one for skinny ties, and I certainly have no skinny ties because I'm half British and my dad eats victory and protein shakes for breakfast each morning. Genetics says I'll have husky bloom, thanks to coach. I'm still working to be fit though, but for reasons of stewardship. Image isn't everything, because all is vanity. My silver lining comes in when the bass drops, and mulling over all my influences musical and otherwise have started to find their home amidst the cogs and colored shapes that make of the musical parts of my heart and mind. I'm appreciative of these things building up inside, but I'm dangerously itching to open the floodgates before this levy breaks.

There's a younger me that never got to be, and he's living locked up without a key. He never got the chance, he never received the benefit of the doubt, he never knew how to say what he meant. So, he slips me notes every now and again, flipping light switches that I forgot were even there. Some things you just can't go back to, and the things I've done are all for a reason, and the things I never got to do aren't lost. This isn't the end. Finishing an album isn't an end. Buying a house or getting married aren't the finish line. These are all just checkpoints, and that kid kicks my heart to remind me of the fiery passion I used to have. Keeps me from being gray and predictable. Keeps me from being hopelessly adorable like Harold Krick.

Well, the passion is still there...just buried underneath receipts, calendar notifications, spilled coffee and Coldplay vinyl sleeves. I'm only in my mid twenties, and I feel older, and look older still. Pick up the needle and start it over, but flip it to side B please.

Thanks,

The Management.