[identity profile] cabaretlights.livejournal.com


The Veldt (Radio Edit)
Deadmau5 ft Chris James
The Veldt EP
2012

: Bittersweet the end of an era.
And on the heels of three perfect days, it feels so strange to feel like this.

As I drove away from saying goodbye to Julie and Justin this (Thursday) morning, I made sure to go via Sherbrooke, to pass McGill and Montagne and the pieces of Montreal rife with memories. I was crying, of course, trying to safely navigate the streets through a watery haze, and it was a flood of emotion the likes of which can never be replicated, and more importantly, can never quite be explained away. I could write a million words about any of the following topics, but nothing would come of it:
-- how tied up in the city and my life Julie is.
-- how empty Montreal can feel sometimes.
-- how full Montreal can feel sometimes.
-- how much I felt from every little era of my Montreal life as I drove.
-- as happy and inspired as I am to see them on their own paths -- how much the late-20s exodus of friends hurts.
-- what this triggers, how I want to start shifting my own life.
-- how my life has already shifted.
-- how absolutely fucking devastating it is to say goodbye.

And what is truly painful about some goodbyes is that you never really think they're going to happen. Even last week, this particular goodbye didn't seem final, or like it was going to happen at all ------ today, it's so wrapped up in everything: every feeling, every movement, every thought, every song. A catalogue of my friendship with Julie would be pointless, because despite this heavy feeling of loss and though it shifts, I know I'm not losing her or our friendship (or mine with Justin; so so important in its own ways). Still: the small act of a hug, a silent knowing sideways glance, the physical memories of experience at certain restaurants, street corners, apartments -- these are things that cannot happen with distance. These are things I did not expect to slip to the other side of the country. Not when I was 22, moving into Claremont, starting a life, building a new home, overcoming dilemmas as I forged the strongest friendships of my life.


So I post this song, because the delusion of youth is that it will never end. That you never have to say goodbye. That, as Julie observed this morning, we are told we can have everything -- and we believe it. That "we will never leave, look at us now / so in love with the way we are, here." But the lives we live now, as partially flawed and partially perfect as they are, were built by these delusional people, these younger versions of ourselves who had no real idea what was coming. "The world that the children made," that idealized world of my, our, early 20s -- the friends that were all together, once; the spontaneous nights and weekends; the excitement of possibility as we ignored that inevitable fact: one day, it will end.

The delusionally happy atmosphere so wonderfully captured in this song is edged with reality; there is yearning in Chris James' voice, the knowledge that everything is transient. But the children made something beautiful. The adults getting on planes, or falling in love, or finding careers, or searching, constantly, for new experiences, or all of those things and more -- they don't leave that beauty behind as they go. It comes with them, a little core of memory and feeling, and love: for a time, a place, the people in it, and for the possibility that never quite fades.

If there was ever a time in my life where I felt everything -- love and loved, devastated and excited, alone and empty --- this is it.

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March 2014

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