“This song makes me feel like the main character,” my friend says to me from the driver’s seat of her car, reaching for the volume dial. “You know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, 100%,” I reply, instantly grasping her meaning. The song is “Youuu” by COIN, a synth-laced alt-pop track that’s simultaneously sad and euphoric. “It sounds like the end credits of a coming-of-age movie.”
My friend smiles in response and rolls down the car windows, letting the warm evening air mingle with the swelling music. We don’t speak for the rest of the song, as if there’s some unspoken agreement not to disturb the moment. To just listen and think and be.
I’ve always thought that the best music is the kind that makes you feel like this.
Days later, my friend’s “main character” comment still lingers in my mind. That she would even think of that remark is a testament to our generation’s pandemic-borne emphasis on romanticizing life. After months of barely distinguishable days, we had to learn to live for the small things. Suddenly, all my social media feeds seemed intent on ridding the world of mundanity.
The advice is often simple—take the scenic route, watch the sunrise, sing in the shower, read poetry, make art. Fall in love with being alive. They’re charming enough ideas that at the cusp of 2021, I resolved to adopt the main-character perspective; somewhat surprisingly, the result was as constraining as it was liberating.
My new outlook on life manifested in a myriad of ways, like taking sunset walks and filming one second of each day. I started writing poetry for fun and embracing spontaneity and driving without destination. Still, none of it felt significant without one crucial aspect—music.
Despite my lack of musical talent, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love it. It’s always been an ever-present part of my life and became even more so with the advent of my new perspective. There was Bon Iver for rainy Sundays and The 1975 for walks to class, Taylor Swift for road trips with friends and The Band Camino for long-anticipated Friday nights. Music elevated every experience, and I found joy in that transcendence.
Still, romanticization had its limits. After some time living with that perspective, while society did the same, I began to question where the line was. At what point does romanticization no longer enhance reality, but create an entirely false one? Would I even realize if that happened?
I’m not posing these questions because I have any sort of valid answer, but because they’re important to consider. In a society where Instagram-worthy moments are currency, caution is paramount. I had to remember that I could have a boring, unremarkable day, and that it was fine for it to be boring and unremarkable. There’s no need to pretend studying all day is quirky and fun, or that waking up at 5:00 a.m. for work is invigorating. Sometimes life is bland, and there’s no way to spin it otherwise, and that is perfectly okay.
To some degree, romanticization can be beneficial. Teaching yourself to look for beauty in the world, especially in small things, is one of the best exercises in gratitude. I find that it helps fill my days with hope and excitement, and makes truly living in the moment a feasible thing. Still, balance is necessary. Some things can’t be romanticized, nor should they be — but that doesn’t make them less valuable.
All of this runs through my mind as I drive home tonight, exhausted from a long day and feeling particularly burned out. I hear the opening notes of David Bowie’s “Heroes” on the radio, and I smile despite myself. The song sounds like hope and wonder and euphoria, so I let it wash over me. I let it become the soundtrack to my previously-sullen drive, realizing that it’s moments like these that need romanticizing. It’s moments like these that make me grateful to be alive.
