Looking at old playlists is similar to looking at old photographs of yourself.
I manage to capture who I was and what I was feeling with every mess of songs:
In love, hopeful, miserable, imprisoned; they're all there.

And now I am at the edge of a precipice yet again, staring into the wild unknown and wondering how I did come to find myself here.
It is not as if cannot remember what has happened--that history is stored deep in my internal hard drive just as surely as my last playlist.
But unlike all of my musical madness, my life doesn't have a designated theme, a predictable order, or, God forbid, the foresight of what is coming next.


I just don't know how this is going to turn out.
I keep forgetting that I'm in charge, that it's up to me.