On the train into work this morning, I did the same thing I’ve done for about the last ten commutes: listen to Coldplay’s “A Rush of Blood to the Head”.

Certain albums have come and gone in terms of their importance and/or relation to my life. For the spring of 1999, it was “Dark Side of the Moon”, since I was designing a rock ballet set to it along with my friend Dave. After the breakup with my girlfriend that summer, Matthew Sweet’s “In Reverse” made more sense that just about anything to me. After that, Moby’s “Play” became the emotional soundtrack to my life, intuitively speaking to me in ways that very few things ever had. Each of these records found me; I didn't find them.

I’m not sure how the Coldplay album fits into all of this, but I do know two things. When listening to the seventh track, “Green Eyes”, the world was alive with optimism, with possibility, with the sense of renewal, beauty, and hope. During the next track, “Warning Sign”, I silently grieved for everything lost and everything that will never be.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I love music.