“We might die from medication but we sure killed all the pain”

That’s the end of love songs, then. After a long and torturous slog that I wasn’t prepared to deal with at all, we come out. But of course, there’s never an end to love songs. There’s never an end to other people’s happiness and heartbreak. You always run up against somebody’s depression. Like Conor Oberst’s young people nearly crippled by pain they can’t even name. You can dismiss it as romanticized hipster woe, with its West Side lofts and yellow taxis, but for me it still strikes a chord. Have you had those times when you can’t drown or silence the heaviness of your heart? And you can’t even articulate why. It’s not healthy or romantic or glamorous, but as the poet says, it is one way to live.


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