Mother, Did It Need To Be So High?

I've taken a trip on the Wayback Machine, back to my teens and to 1980, with Pink Floyd's The Wall.

I've read many reviews and analyses, all of which point to the hopelessness of this brilliant watermark in rock. I've never quite agreed with those assessments. Granted, my knowledge of the band members biographies is quite limited in comparison, but I persist.

The album has always seemed to me more of a love letter to Syd Barrett, and moreso to everyone lost in the layers of their own experience and circumstance that compel us to raise barriers against the onslaught of daily reality in order to avoid further emotional and psychological pain.

I drive about 150 miles a day to and from work, so I'm able to listen to large swaths of the album whenever I commute. My most common emotional response is a sadness for the ones who have lost years hiding behind their own walls, for whom life is no more than an obstacle course of threats to the bricks of their psyche.

What about me? What is the makeup of my wall? How high is it? Am I still building or am I tearing it down? I've always thought that I had a firm grip on reality. I've always felt that I had a reasonable view of my own psyche. I've always tried to be introspective and critical of my own thinking, of my own reactions to life and circumstance. I've always tried to be honest and consistent with myself and with others.

Could even that be my wall? Is that another layer that I need to peel away to understand myself and my true nature? How much does what I believe about human nature create boundaries rather than reveal my own soul? Where is the line between belief and truth?

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I question my beliefs so much as I wonder if I hide behind my beliefs to avoid taking a harder look at the imperfections in my soul.

Perhaps I ought to just relax and enjoy the cool music...