They're standing outside and they're broken in

1999 was the year that I started my year-end mixes. It was a significant year, a calendar year when I saw one colossal heartbreak and an echo of it shortly afterwards, when I moved to DC and not only to a new job but an entirely new career.

It was a clearly a before-and-after year for me, and so many of the songs on that first year-end mix still contain the exact emotions of the year for me. They're beyond memories. I can listen to Aden's "Swords and Falconry" or Shannon Wright's "Captain of Quarantine" and feel the heartbreak and uncertain promise of change that were such a part of that year. Those songs are still hard to listen to.

I packed a lot of emotion into 1999, but there've been moments since then, of course. Every year has rough patches, and there's always a musical accompaniment. Maybe it just happens to be the song I'm listening to a lot at the time or maybe it's a tune whose sound suits my feeling, but whether I want it to or not, the time gets glued to the song. During down times, I'll sometimes stop listening to music for a few days, just to keep life's lower points away from a song I love.

I didn't do it this week, though. This, my last week at the job I've had for five years, is a tough one. I'm freeing myself of the personal and professional tangles that have tightened into some nasty knots, but I'm also saying goodbye to some people I'm extremely fond of, knowing that my intentions to keep in touch won't always turn into reality. I'm letting go of work that I've grown to love in spite of its frustrations. It has been, and will continue to be, an emotional week.

Whether it was coincidence or subconscious that brought the song to my mind, there I was: listening repeatedly to a song of sudden bursts of emotion ("and with a broken heart"), an intense sadness and searching, uncertain beats. That song is this week.

The Twilight Sad, "That Summer, At Home, I Was The Invisible Boy"