Every once in so often, my iPod is blessed with a new tune that so perfectly encapsulates the trajectory of my life in that very moment, it's easy for my ego to believe that the song was written for me, and only for me.
I just sit and listen. Listen and wait; perched on the top tube of my Flite 500, staring at boxcars whizzing by--a steady stream of rust punctuated by various shades of elementary graffiti stainage.
Life makes sense in this moment. I get it. It gets me. I'm supposed to be waiting. A heaviset, mustached man in an SUV pulls up alongside and stops. We're both waiting now. He doesn't have a clue, but I'd like to think he gets it too. Everything clicks.
And clacks.
Like my breath hanging in frozen vapor, the hopes abruptly dissapate with the realization that this song is going to be huge. I stop silently nodding my head in agreement, because these words were meant for more--more than soaking the dusty, vacant lot between my ears. Before its final destination somewhere beyond the stratosphere, this one's headed for the top of the charts, and inevitibly, the tops of vapid mixtapes and Facebook statuses from misunderstood teenage girls everywhere.
So before this melody of mine finds its misguided way to the squealing, brainless pieholes running ragged all over the digital henhouse from Bangor to Bakersfield, into these trusty earbuds I now stake my claim:
I heard it first, goddamnit.
And just like that, the song ends as the last of the boxcars clatter by--cold air finally suffocating the chimes. I clip back in, and cross the tracks.
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