Cuando encontré mis viejos diarios de la
infancia y la adolescencia, estaban cubiertos de polvo. Y no intento que suene
poético ni nada, es que estaban llenos de polvo de verdad, y también de fotos
de los modelitos de los primeros días de instituto y de citas inspiradoras que
solía leer y releer cuando pasaba por momentos de incertidumbre. En ellos
practicaba mi autógrafo y les pegaba mis púas de guitarra a sus páginas. Solía
fantasear sobre el papel y hacer reflexiones sobre quién pediría a quién ir al
baile y sobre lo nerviosa que estaba de cantar el himno nacional en el campo de
béisbol local. He cambiado de opinión frecuente y drásticamente sobre el amor,
los amigos, la autoestima y la confianza. Me he desahogado describiendo
recuerdos con todo detalle, he apuntado ideas para nuevas canciones y me he
cuestionado por qué intentaría siquiera darlo todo por una carrera que tenía
tan pocas posibilidades de conseguir.
Pero lo que más impactada me dejó fue
descubrir lo mucho que escribía sobre las cosas que me encantaban. Componer una
nueva canción, ir en coche con mi madre, el cielo púrpura sobre el campo de
fútbol en el camino de vuelta a casa, aquella noche en el instituto en que
ninguno de mis amigos se estaba peleando, el brillo de unos colgantes de ópalo que
no me podía permitir comprar reluciendo en una joyería. Escribía sobre detalles
minúsculos de mi vida en esos diarios de una época que no volverá con mucho…
asombro. Intriga. Amor. Veía algo y pensaba que era romántico, y lo era.
He decidido que en esta vida, quiero que se me defina por las cosas que me gustan — no por las que odio, a las que temo, o por las cosas que me persiguen de noche. Porque esas cosas pueden ser mis luchas, pero no mi identidad. Ojalá os pase lo mismo a vosotros. Ojalá vuestras luchas se conviertan en ruido de fondo inaudible tras esas voces fuertes y claras de quienes os quieren y os aprecian. Encended esas voces en vuestras cabezas. Ojalá toméis nota de las cosas de vuestras vidas que molan y que os hacen sentir seguros o incluso las que os asombran. Ojalá escribáis vuestros sentimientos y reflexionéis sobre ellos años después, solo para recordar que todas las pruebas y obstáculos que pensabais que os matarían… no lo hicieron. Espero que algún día os olvidéis de que alguna vez sentisteis ese dolor. Espero que si tenéis a algún amante en vuestra vida, sea alguien que os merezca. Y si ese es el caso, espero que le trates con cariño.
Este álbum es una carta de
amor al amor en sí — con
todos sus cautivadores, hechizantes, enloquecedores y desoladores rojos,
azules, grises y dorados aspectos (por eso tiene tantas canciones).
En honor a los sueños fervientes, a
los chicos malotes, a las confesiones de amor en una noche de borrachera, a las
luces de Navidad que aún siguen encendidas en enero, a las cicatrices de
cuerdas de guitarra de mis manos, a los falsos dioses y la fe ciega, a los
recuerdos saltando en una piscina descubierta congelada, a los crujidos del
parqué del suelo y la luz ultravioleta de la mañana, a encontrar por fin a un
amigo de verdad, y a abrir las cortinas y ver la más brillante y clara luz del
día tras la noche más oscura…
Somos aquello a lo que amamos.
...
When I found my old diaries from my childhood and teen years, they were covered in dust. I'm not just saying that for poetic effect, they were truly dusty, with pictures drawn of first day of school outfits and inspirational quotes I used to retrace over and over to get me through doubtful moments. I'd practice my autograph and tape my guitar picks to the pages. In the entries, I daydreamed on paper and mused about who might ask who to the dance and how nervous I was singing the national anthem at the local baseball game. I frequently and drastically changed my opinions on love, friends, confidence and trust. I vented, described memories in detail, jotted down new song ideas and questioned why I would ever even try to shoot for a career I had such a small chance of ever attaining.
But what shocked me the most was how often I wrote about the things I loved. Writing a new song, riding in the car with my mom, the purple-pink sky above the soccer field on the walk home, the one night in middle school when none of my friends were fighting, the dazzle of opal necklaces I couldn't afford gleaming from a department store jewelry case. I wrote about tiny details in my life in these diaries from a bygone age with such... wonderment. Intrigue. Romance. I noticed things and decided they were romantic, and so they were.
In life, we grow up and we encounter the nuanced complexities of trying to figure out who to be, how to react, or how to be happy. Like invisible smoke in the room, we wonder what kind of anxiety pushes you forward and what kind ruins your ability to find joy in your life. We constantly question our choices, our surroundings, and we beat ourselves up for our mistakes. All the while, we crave romance. We long for those rare, enchanting moments when things just fall into place. Above all else, we really, really want our lives to be filled with love.
I've decided that in this life, I want to be defined by the things I love — not the things I hate, the things I'm afraid of, or the things that haunt me in the middle of the night. Those things may be my struggles, but they're not my identity. I wish the same for you. May your struggles become inaudible background noise behind that loud, clear voices of those who love and appreciate you. Turn those voices up in the mix in your head. May you take notice of the things in your life that are nice and make you feel safe and maybe even find wonderment in them. May you write down your feelings and reflect on them years later, only to learn that all the trials and tribulations you thought might kill you... don't. I hope that someday you forget that pain ever existed. I hope that if there is a lover in your life, it's someone who deserves you. If that's the case, I hope you treat them with care.
This album is a love letter to love itself — all the captivating, spellbinding, maddening, devastating red, blue, gray, golden aspects of it (that's why there are so many songs).
In honor of fever dreams, bad bad boys, confessions of love on a drunken night out, Christmas lights still hanging in January, guitar string scars on my hands, false gods and blind faith, memories of jumping into an icy outdoor pool, creaks in floorboards and ultraviolet morning light, finally finding a friend, and opening the curtains to see the clearest, brightest daylight after the darkest night...
We are what we love.
This is LOVER.
But what shocked me the most was how often I wrote about the things I loved. Writing a new song, riding in the car with my mom, the purple-pink sky above the soccer field on the walk home, the one night in middle school when none of my friends were fighting, the dazzle of opal necklaces I couldn't afford gleaming from a department store jewelry case. I wrote about tiny details in my life in these diaries from a bygone age with such... wonderment. Intrigue. Romance. I noticed things and decided they were romantic, and so they were.
In life, we grow up and we encounter the nuanced complexities of trying to figure out who to be, how to react, or how to be happy. Like invisible smoke in the room, we wonder what kind of anxiety pushes you forward and what kind ruins your ability to find joy in your life. We constantly question our choices, our surroundings, and we beat ourselves up for our mistakes. All the while, we crave romance. We long for those rare, enchanting moments when things just fall into place. Above all else, we really, really want our lives to be filled with love.
I've decided that in this life, I want to be defined by the things I love — not the things I hate, the things I'm afraid of, or the things that haunt me in the middle of the night. Those things may be my struggles, but they're not my identity. I wish the same for you. May your struggles become inaudible background noise behind that loud, clear voices of those who love and appreciate you. Turn those voices up in the mix in your head. May you take notice of the things in your life that are nice and make you feel safe and maybe even find wonderment in them. May you write down your feelings and reflect on them years later, only to learn that all the trials and tribulations you thought might kill you... don't. I hope that someday you forget that pain ever existed. I hope that if there is a lover in your life, it's someone who deserves you. If that's the case, I hope you treat them with care.
This album is a love letter to love itself — all the captivating, spellbinding, maddening, devastating red, blue, gray, golden aspects of it (that's why there are so many songs).
In honor of fever dreams, bad bad boys, confessions of love on a drunken night out, Christmas lights still hanging in January, guitar string scars on my hands, false gods and blind faith, memories of jumping into an icy outdoor pool, creaks in floorboards and ultraviolet morning light, finally finding a friend, and opening the curtains to see the clearest, brightest daylight after the darkest night...
We are what we love.
This is LOVER.
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