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"

Send out a batallion

There's some big decisions to be made in my life, which means the usual heated—often violent—arguments between Logical Reid (LR) and Emotional Reid (ER).

ER has worries. He wants to escape and he sees a clear way out. The problem is that there is—as always—a sacrifice to be made and LR is not willing to make it.

"We have a possible path to prosperity!", LR says with unnecessary alliteration. "Why should we give up that path just because you can't suck it up and recognize the hurt and difficulty as an unfortunate part of life?! We could make a good move here, and I'm not going to let your heart get in the way of that."

"You've been there, too, though" ER counters, surprisingly calmly. "You've seen what it's like, how miserable it can be. And you know that not only can we kill the problem in one swift stroke, but it's still a decent move. Maybe not as good a move, but still a good one."

And on and on.

But they agree on one thing: they're both filled with fear of the person who knows the best decision: Future Reid. And the problem is, Future Reid is a real jerk. Whichever one of them is wrong is not only going to get raked over the coals for the boneheaded decision they made, but Future Reid will never...let...him...forget about it. It is this fear that keeps both LR and ER up at nights, endlessly arguing over the correct path.

But then Future Reid says, "You know what, guys? One of you is going to catch hell from me sometime soon, but let's forget about it tonight and just listen to Fionn Regan's 'Put A Penny In The Slot' one more time." And, for a little while, they're all pretty happy.