The Postal Service - “Recycled Air”

My mother spends so much time in places away from home that I think she forgets how she arrives there. It’s the repetition that gets to her. One can only take so many trips before he or she starts to tune it all out. I imagine there must be a point – probably around the twentieth 5 am wakeup time – where the idea of driving to the airport to catch an early morning flight across the country loses its adventurous allure. Beyond that, the small aspects that once made travel so exciting become insignificant parts of a routine. You stop drinking coffee on the road just because you like the taste, and start perpetually waiting for its intended effect to kick in. You stop noticing the sunrise over New York City at 6 am as you drive south over I-95. You stop making mix CDs, and you stop loading up your iPod with new music to listen to on the flight. Maybe if you breathe too much recycled air, your life starts to become just like a Postal Service song – cold, desolate, empty, and permeated only by the sounds of a lonely and emotionally exhausted person mourning the loss of a life he never had. If I didn’t know that he would become super rich within the next five years, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be Ben Gibbard in 2003. 

Next Step: R.E.M. - “Daysleeper”