Measurements

I used to be somewhat obsessed with this musical called Rent. Although that time has since passed, being replaced by new obsessions, I can still sing any lyric and hum any tune from the show, remember the storyline and stage perfectly. Like any true follower, I even dragged one of my best friends into its gravitational pull, and we used to study the words and symbolism behind the songs. We bought the t-shirts. One of the best songs of the batch was Seasons Of Love, which poses a simple question: how do you measure a year? In time, in memories, in hurts, in hopes?

We arrive at the point. Just about a year ago, give or take a few days, I came to Madrid. I arrived with tons of baggage, both kinds, and it took me a while to unload it all. Since then, I've been through some really crappy times and some great ones. For the most part, the streets look the same, and the people are definitely as they have always been. It's been strange being back, and sometimes not in a good way. I guess I've mentioned this all before, the way that the memories tend to get so polished and shiny that before long you realize that you've been buffing away all the sharp edges, all the real bits. I don't know how you're supposed to measure a year's accomplishments and failures, happiness and boredom, hurts and loves; but maybe it starts by acknowledging that every one of our hours is made up of all those things in the first place.