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The musings of a 20-something songwriter living in LA..


Window Seats


I’ve never liked flying, but there’s a peace in it that deserves some credit… or discredit for us anxiety folk. The white noise of the engines, the movies through other people's headphones collectively overwhelming your senses until all you can do is think. Or at least that’s what I land on. I get trapped in my own thoughts between the limited in-cabin oxygen and the crying infant next-door. What am I thinking about, you ask? Well.. you, I guess. All of you. The you that helped me take down my posters and isn’t here to put them back up and the you that used to get me drunk on green tea shots. The you that always walked to trader joes with me, the you that knows Bacchanale, and the you I used to be before I met all of the other yous.

I’m in between the delirium of half-sleep and the next game of thrones episode and I’m thousands of feet up in the freakin stratosphere and I’m moving. I moved. Across the country. And for why? For the sake of a callback, if I was John Green I would say, “I go to seek a great perhaps” (from an abundance of Katherines, seriously underrated). Translation? I think there’s more out there and I’m gonna find it. I’m gonna harvest that shit out of the veins of Los Angeles (if they even exist) and transfuse it into music? Success? An unhealthy erewhon addiction? Transfusion TBD, but there’s an odd peace in not knowing. It filters down the ‘hopes’ and the ‘wants’ into the ‘nows’ and the ‘tomorrows.’ It’s the white noise of the engines.. so much of it that there’s nothing.

I’ve been writing great songs. Really fucking great songs. Right in the middle of that white noise. Where I don’t even exist, only the story does. And it's so peaceful to just be yourself and tell the truth and take risks and think on the plane, but not on Delta. Fuck you Delta.

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