1970s Sad

There’s something about the 1970s that felt an appropriate expression of sad. It was as though the bridges of progress and free love from the 60s just didn’t quite make it to the other side. Construction stopped. The weather was allowed to have her way with these bridges.

The veneer of cities, dilapidating, faster than the hopes of the people in them. Jazz was smarter but sadder, more complex, spiraling. Cigarettes kept up with the spinning record players. The Beatles were done sining, but Black Sabbath had to. Technology, only marginally advanced from the previous 30 years was less of a distraction, less of a release.

A good sad, as far as goodness in sadness goes. A sad that should’ve been, considering. Pouring from the humanity and the things it touched with little filter. When I watch and hear the 70s, I think my sadness would’ve fit in back then. Because it’s the sad of sitting at the edge of an unfinished bridge, legs dangling over water. Maybe with somebody, maybe not. Sifting weathered concrete in my leaned back hands. Watching the verdant side that almost received us.