Fly On

I’m sitting in my back garden, listening to “O” by Coldplay. The arpeggiated piano motif is gentle, undulating, hypotonic, the vocal raw, the production subtle and intentional. There’s an apt melancholy throughout, that stripping away pretense and hipness and surrendering gracefully the way things were ushers in something needed.

Chris Martin takes it on the chin from cool kid musicians, but he has a knack for hitting the nail on the head:

Sometimes they arrive

Sometimes they are gone

Fly on

There’s always a beginning, always an end, and no point belaboring the bit in between. Things have a way of making sense in their own time, if we let them.