The inner soundtrack of my life

Today was a gorgeous fall day – mild, breezy and sunny, perfect for cycling to school and back. While I was cruising through Chinatown and along Union St. in Strathcona, I literally felt glad to be alive. It is rare that I contemplate my mortal self – the active state of my cells, my heart pumping, my lungs expanding and contracting. Usually I accept my “being in the world” (to poach recklessly from Heidegger), and mostly I rail against the injustices that plague human existence. But infrequently am I actually, actively, literally glad to be alive. Today was such a day. The exertion needed to get my very sexy but totally impractical gearless bike up the never-ending hills (even gentle inclines require me to stand up) got my blood moving and the soundtrack that happened to be in rotation on my ipod was perfect for such an effort. It was, I realized, the soundtrack of my life, perfectly in sync with every pedal, swerve, glide and coast of that moment: Prince, The Dandy Warhols, The Refugees, Erykah Badu, Hot Chip and of course, the Beastie Boys annotating my inner world, making me thankful for my physical presence on this fucked up planet.

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