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It’s a matter of realizing that we’re in these twilight years between being children and being adults and that we can’t really remember the former or imagine the later. It’s a matter of knowing that everything is so intense, and even though that leads to a lot of heartbreak, tears, and attempted escape routes, it’s also what lets us be real. Because in the endless monotony of the 9 to 5, we’re going to need to remember when a person or a dance or a ray of sunshine was so real it was all that mattered. It’s a matter of realizing that we are in a place we are not well equipped to be, on the edge of deciding what to do for the rest of our lives before we have been given permission to begin those lives. It’s a matter of knowing that we know what we are not more then what we are, and the unfortunate fact that no number of tangent lines will actually form a seamless circle.

It is about good mornings and bad mornings, falling in and out of love. It is about paintings and drawings, and the trees on the edge of your hometown that you recognize when you wake up at the end of a road trip, even though on any given Tuesday you could not describe them. It is about friendships, and the ways they end. It is about concerts and trying to find a stereotype of ‘myself’. It is about hope and life and midnight movies and that small theatre in the mountains and the abandoned house at the edge of the neighborhood. It is about being and not belonging. It is about dreams and the ways they are born and the difficulties in deciding which ones to make come true. It is about how fragile and fleeting and precious this purity of youth is, and how we always run away from it despite that.

It is about fact, portrayed through fiction, so that you may understand that although to you it is only a song, only a note, it can be intense enough to be its own world.

It is, although written by these hands, about your eyes.