There's no music for this. Nothing that rocks out loud or calls to its listener or weeps on your shoulder or strums through the ages or echoes through my own inept, un-conducted mind to explain this feeling.

I had thought there was music for everything, every insignificant moment. The day I learned to drive a car: softly and somewhat hilariously "100 Years" by Five for Fighting. As I turned corners and the air-conditioning blew my hair back in what I guessed were sexy tendrils, I was a grown up and I was getting somewhere. Although I was lapping myself doing circles in a parking lot.

Total isolated loneliness: A freshman, with a penchant for saying the word "fuck" in my head secretively and the need to wear old, ripped flannel shirts and army surplus store trench coats, I sunk myself into Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" maybe a little too late. Generation-X was not too far off from my Generation-Whatever and I doubted there was a better anthem that I could find in anybody like The Ataris or (fucking) John Mayor.

Starting college: how hard I laughed where deciphering Bob Dylan's wheeze of a voice to hear him tell me I was "Going to the finest school" but I didn't know jack... How I was "learning how to compromise" from hobos and all the while, hey, darlin', "How does it FEEL?" Sitting with my feet curled up under me in my cold dorm room at the desk I didn't own, I figured it felt something like being a rolling stone. But maybe that was just because he told me so.

Placebo when I'm angsty, Vanessa Carlton when I'm wistful, Jimmy Soul when I'm laughing until I cry, Jonny Cash when I'm remembering, Counting Crows when I'm alone. It's so easy to pin-point the exact moment a song touched my life, or the exact moment in my life where I needed that song.

But for when I'm full of grace, full of bewildered awe, full of you, no music can sing for my heart and I am left with silence that lets me know I am yours.