Youth is a moment in time. A past monument that only exists in a saturated velocity of intrepid memories. Crazy times await in the future of what is to come. There is rarely an experience worth remembrance that doesn't feature brief breathes of embarrassment. Then they get replaced like the tide washing upon the sand. The words lose all meaning when they are said. Shot out like cannons into a dust bowl, we don't intend to reciprocate our thoughts into a fixed point in time. Without intention or maybe even a lack of correspondence to the repercussions of our youth that is tender than ever.
"Cause even though we don't mean what we say, we throw our words like bombs and hand grenades."
The Beulah tune always ignites all those trap door memories. Those times you'll never forget, but you wish you could. That heavy feeling that erupts wishing you could disappear into the mountains, change your identity and live the rest of this brief light slowly burning out. Then there are those arms always out stretched with snug warmth making escape only a dream.
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