My mind is like a mixtape. Each track captures a memory frozen in the back of my brain, yet none of them fit together quite like a full album. It wasn't always like this. I remember carefree days of continuous, fluid music that never missed a beat. Now, the tracks tend to skip, and there are some that don't play at all.

Some of my mind-tracks are light and rhythmic, like a fun Backstreet Boys tune– dates, dances, making new friends. A few of them burn with the intensity of a Celine Dion ballad– first kisses, the feeling of falling in love. Then, there are those that sound like the deep, moody tones of a Rachmaninov concerto. These are the ones that seem to replay in my head, no matter how many times I try to press STOP– the blur of a fuzzy television picture, a curious stack of paper plates, the hands that press onto my shoulders as I squirm underneath the pressure, the feeling that I am drowning alone in a dark ocean miles beyond the shore. These are just a few of the bleaker tracks, and honestly, there are many, many more.

As much as I try to make sense of all this music, my brain continues to go flat. All of these tracks simultaneously replay in my mind, leaving me to wonder which of these songs are even real. I'm buried underneath the weight of these notes, left to piece the tracks together one at a time, desperately trying to figure out which song played first and which track is playing now. As I attempt to create my personal playlist, I have found that the best place to look for the truth is to always start at the beginning...