Impermanence
The beauty of music lies in its everlasting impermanence, the fleeting sense of isolation and intimacy that leaves its marks long after the sound fades. It fills you up and hollows you out at the same time, always catching you off guard.
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I was going through my usual work routine today while listening to my New York-inspired Spotify playlist when Billy Joel and Barbra Streisand’s duet of New York State of Mind came on. I couldn’t quite decipher how it felt, but ‘enraging’ comes close. It was alive, almost unbearable, as if pressing against something just beneath the surface. Their voices not just harmonizing, but creating something larger than the song itself, reaching for a moment that stayed agonizingly out of reach, dragging me with it.
I realized in those few minutes that life sometimes gives back everything you’ve ever longed for, but in ways so intangible they almost slip through your fingers. That’s what makes it so beautifully infuriating. For a moment, it builds a world so vivid you can almost taste it, like trying to hold onto smoke or catching a wave just as it recedes, only to leave you aching over fading piano notes; it’s not sadness you feel, but something quieter and harder to define.
That duet was New York itself. Gritty and glamorous, alive and heartbreaking. It reminded me of every dream I’ve chased, every ephemeral moment of clarity and connection. I thought about the times that slip away unnoticed, their weight only felt once they’re gone, leaving you grasping at what you didn’t know you had; and how quietly it leaves.
And yet, maybe that’s the magic of it. Maybe music isn’t meant to stay. Maybe it’s meant to remind us that nothing ever really does; and that there’s beauty in that, too.
