This morning the world was pale, the sun blotching out the periwinkle sky with a delicate orange. The blinds were shut, and through chinks of the neighborhood around me it was the same suffocating calm as when it snows. The clouds were downy gray coupled with rainy weather, and that was the reason it appeared so, but it put me into the mood for winter.
The thing I was really looking forward to this coming December were the Christmas songs; my radio station rolls them out 100 percent: sweet lullabies, fun tunes, extraordinary symphonies, you name it. Yet not one of them compares to “Carol Bells”, the version without words. It is powerful, exhilarating and powerful. Just listening to it makes me nostalgic of the yearly holiday fest.
I truly believe every song compares to a story. I began reading “Inkheart” by Cornelia Funke, and I related to the part where she compares books to memory keepers. The main character, Meggie, explained that printed words bring you back to the experiences you had while you were reading them, the sights, sounds, your emotions. Well, I think songs are like that too. I only have to listen to a song that I heard a year ago only to introduce me to a younger version of myself.