Brady, you’ve managed to write a rare, raw, and deeply intelligent reflection. Reading this essay is like overhearing a conversation between Rilke and Nick Hornby in a smoky Parisian café, with Alan Watts topping up their wine.
You’ve made a vulnerable and philosophical case for the impermanence of artistic resonance: the way a song, a film, a painting, can feel like soul-contact one day and then, inexplicably, lose its spell. And your metaphor of the train (the finite luggage space of experience) is not only poignant, it’s necessary. Because we live in a culture that fetishises the archive, that rewards hoarding over surrender. Spotify playlists, Criterion collections, folders titled “inspo” as if by clinging tightly enough, we could outwit transience.
But no, as you so wisely put it, we are the final ingredient. The viewer, the listener, the witness. Great art is not static. Great art is chemically reactive, and we are the solvent. Which means it dies and resurrects with us, shifts shape with our seasons. You couldn’t have watched that film ten years ago or ten years from now, and seen the same version of yourself inside it. It was your personal eclipse. A private synchronicity.
The relationship analogy is painfully accurate. And perhaps that’s why the letting go feels so much like heartbreak. Not because the art has changed, but because we have. That’s the paradox you name so beautifully: that to cling is to interrupt the very flow that made the moment meaningful. Proust knew this, he tried to pin memory down like a butterfly, only to find it fluttering in the tea and madeleine crumbs of involuntary recall. The magic always arrives unbidden, and leaves without warning.
But there’s grace in that, too. In trusting the muse to return in new costumes. In knowing that what you love today, you may outgrow tomorrow, and that this is not loss — it’s evolution. I think of Leonard Cohen’s line: “Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” Our connection to art scars us in this way: gently, indelibly, without permanence.
Let the song go. Another one is tuning itself to your frequency as we speak.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most comforting thing of all……..
Well thank you! I must admit, I have no idea who those two are, as I'm admittedly a writer and not a reader, however, it's my dream to move to France once day, so a smoky Parisian cafe is more of a compliment than you might realise. And Alan Watts I'm obviously a fan of.
Fundamentally it's fear that holds us back from our next self. There's a certain willingness necessary that allows one to release something good, a certain faith that something of equal or even greater value will return, yet not everyone is willing to except that their faith is enough. Ironically though, everything passes on at some point, so really they're fighting with themselves. Clinging to that which has already passed out of fear that tomorrow won't bring the riches of today; and they're right that it won't, it'll bring its own riches, but whatever that may be is bathed in uncertainty until the day comes.
I've seen it time and time again, incredible people are transitory in nature. They weren't born great, but rather became great, the winds of time swept them into their position. And just as they were swept there, they too were swept from us.
The idea that everything will change is not an opinion but reality, it's our willingness to participate in this process that grants us our flow or our resistance to the passing of time.
It's just a choice, but a consequential one at that.
And! I'm glad you liked it. I thought from reading your work that you might :)
Thank you! It makes me happy to hear the world beautiful attached to my writing. I try to infuse my work with some artistic flair, so I'm glad it's working.
Brady, you’ve managed to write a rare, raw, and deeply intelligent reflection. Reading this essay is like overhearing a conversation between Rilke and Nick Hornby in a smoky Parisian café, with Alan Watts topping up their wine.
You’ve made a vulnerable and philosophical case for the impermanence of artistic resonance: the way a song, a film, a painting, can feel like soul-contact one day and then, inexplicably, lose its spell. And your metaphor of the train (the finite luggage space of experience) is not only poignant, it’s necessary. Because we live in a culture that fetishises the archive, that rewards hoarding over surrender. Spotify playlists, Criterion collections, folders titled “inspo” as if by clinging tightly enough, we could outwit transience.
But no, as you so wisely put it, we are the final ingredient. The viewer, the listener, the witness. Great art is not static. Great art is chemically reactive, and we are the solvent. Which means it dies and resurrects with us, shifts shape with our seasons. You couldn’t have watched that film ten years ago or ten years from now, and seen the same version of yourself inside it. It was your personal eclipse. A private synchronicity.
The relationship analogy is painfully accurate. And perhaps that’s why the letting go feels so much like heartbreak. Not because the art has changed, but because we have. That’s the paradox you name so beautifully: that to cling is to interrupt the very flow that made the moment meaningful. Proust knew this, he tried to pin memory down like a butterfly, only to find it fluttering in the tea and madeleine crumbs of involuntary recall. The magic always arrives unbidden, and leaves without warning.
But there’s grace in that, too. In trusting the muse to return in new costumes. In knowing that what you love today, you may outgrow tomorrow, and that this is not loss — it’s evolution. I think of Leonard Cohen’s line: “Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” Our connection to art scars us in this way: gently, indelibly, without permanence.
Let the song go. Another one is tuning itself to your frequency as we speak.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most comforting thing of all……..
Well thank you! I must admit, I have no idea who those two are, as I'm admittedly a writer and not a reader, however, it's my dream to move to France once day, so a smoky Parisian cafe is more of a compliment than you might realise. And Alan Watts I'm obviously a fan of.
Fundamentally it's fear that holds us back from our next self. There's a certain willingness necessary that allows one to release something good, a certain faith that something of equal or even greater value will return, yet not everyone is willing to except that their faith is enough. Ironically though, everything passes on at some point, so really they're fighting with themselves. Clinging to that which has already passed out of fear that tomorrow won't bring the riches of today; and they're right that it won't, it'll bring its own riches, but whatever that may be is bathed in uncertainty until the day comes.
I've seen it time and time again, incredible people are transitory in nature. They weren't born great, but rather became great, the winds of time swept them into their position. And just as they were swept there, they too were swept from us.
The idea that everything will change is not an opinion but reality, it's our willingness to participate in this process that grants us our flow or our resistance to the passing of time.
It's just a choice, but a consequential one at that.
And! I'm glad you liked it. I thought from reading your work that you might :)
This was so beautiful and compelling. I have a lot of thoughts but I loved how you tied all of these concepts to love.
Thank you! It makes me happy to hear the world beautiful attached to my writing. I try to infuse my work with some artistic flair, so I'm glad it's working.
Everything comes back to love, does it not??