Recently, I’ve found myself deeply engrossed in a stream of interviews and retrospectives spotlighting Prince and The Revolution on YouTube. This surge of content reignited my fascination with their artistry and served as the perfect catalyst for revisiting Around the World in a Day—Prince’s seventh studio album and the second officially credited to Prince and The Revolution. Originally released on April 22, 1985, the album stands as a bold and imaginative departure from the mainstream and returning to it felt like rediscovering a forgotten chapter of musical brilliance.
From the moment the opening track began, I was struck by a sense of wonder and a tinge of regret. I couldn’t help but ask myself: why had I waited so long to return to this album? Yet, as the music unfolded, I was grateful that I finally did. Around the World in a Day is far more than a collection of songs—it’s a richly layered, cerebral journey through sound and meaning. The album explores a wide spectrum of themes, including the seductive dangers of fame and success, the isolating weight of loneliness, the burden of guilt, the ever-present shadow of fear, and a yearning for utopia. It delves into spirituality, political ideologies, patriotism, and even touches on communism, all while weaving in a deep desire for escapism and the longing to break free from societal constraints.
Unlike its predecessor, Purple Rain, which leaned heavily into pop rock and became a cultural phenomenon, Around the World in a Day takes a bold and unconventional turn. Prince trades in the anthemic hooks and radio-friendly polish for a more experimental and psychedelic soundscape. The album is infused with elements of neo-psychedelia, funk rock, psychedelic soul, and even touches of psychedelic pop. It features an eclectic mix of instruments—some rarely heard in mainstream pop—which adds to its mystique and artistic depth.
Listening to it now, with fresh ears and a more mature perspective, I can appreciate the album’s ambition, and the risks Prince took in crafting something so different from what the public might have expected after Purple Rain. It’s clear that he was more interested in pushing boundaries than repeating past
successes.
I’ll definitely be adding Around the World in a Day to my regular listening rotation. It’s a reminder of how much artistry and insight can be packed into a single album when an artist is willing to challenge conventions. Inspired by this rediscovery, I also plan to revisit other albums from my younger years. I have a feeling there are countless hidden gems waiting to be unearthed—musical treasures that once shaped my tastes and now offer new layers of meaning.
Mood: Curious
Music: My own lousy humming
August 16, 2025 • 4:48pm
The Weight of What’s Done
Regret, as a concept, assumes something deceptively simple: that things could have gone differently. It’s a belief that, had we chosen another path, spoken another word, or paused a moment longer, the outcome might have changed. But this notion, while emotionally resonant, is philosophically fraught. The past is not a sandbox for revision—it is a fixed terrain. Once something has occurred, it becomes part of the unchangeable structure of reality. To imagine otherwise is to indulge in a kind of temporal fiction, one that contradicts the very nature of causality.
This realization leads us into the realm of determinism, where every action is the inevitable result of prior conditions. Our choices, though experienced as free, may be shaped by layers of influence—genetics, upbringing, circumstance—that narrow the field of possibility. In this view, the permanence of our actions is not just a philosophical abstraction but a lived truth. What we do matters, and once done, cannot be undone. The idea that we could have done otherwise becomes less a reflection of freedom and more a symptom of our discomfort with finality.
And yet, the discomfort persists. There’s something deeply unsettling about the idea that our agency is limited not just by external forces, but by the very structure of time. We cannot rewind. We cannot revise. Even the smallest action—typing a sentence, making a phone call, walking away—alters the world in ways we may never fully grasp. That change occurs without our full awareness, without the possibility of retraction, is both humbling and terrifying.
This is where regret becomes more than just a feeling—it becomes a confrontation with our own vulnerability. We are the architects of change, yes, but also the prisoners of its permanence. The world is different because of what we do, and we cannot unmake it. Mistakes, once made, are etched into the timeline. There is no cosmic editor to grant reprieve. And while this may seem obvious—time travel is fiction, after all—it speaks to a deeper truth: our lives are shaped by irreversible decisions, and the weight of those decisions often exceeds our awareness of them.
Regret, then, is not irrational. It’s honest. It reflects our recognition that we have shaped the world, and that we cannot undo what has been shaped. It’s the emotional residue of agency without control, of influence without revision. And perhaps that’s why it lingers—because it reminds us that we are human, fallible, and deeply entangled in the consequences of our own becoming.
So when we feel regret, we’re not just mourning a different outcome. We’re grappling with the limits of our power, the finality of our choices, and the haunting truth that even the smallest act can echo far beyond our intention. That echo is not something to fear—but something to understand. Because in understanding it, we begin to make peace with the permanence of what’s done.
Mood: Curious
Music: Brain Stew by Green Day
August 14, 2025 • 7:31pm
Dear Diary, or Whatever This Is
Well, here I am. The inaugural entry, a crisp, new sheet filled with possibility—and probably destined for chaotic scribbles, over-thought emotions, and at least one coffee stain. But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Growth rarely looks tidy.
I’ve decided to give my thoughts a room of their own. Not a five-star hotel suite (sorry, brain), but something more rustic—a cozy cabin in journal form. Somewhere it can track mud inside, kick off its shoes, and ramble about life’s weird little moments, like wondering whether plants feel offended when I don't talk to them...or questioning why my most profound ideas strike right before I fall asleep and vanish by morning.
This is the start of a conversation with myself—equal parts therapy session, comedy act, and motivational pep talk. If you (me?) ever read this, in the future, I hope it feels like finding a long-lost voice message from someone who believed in you back when things felt messy but magical. So here’s to this journey: to honesty, laughter, progress, and the kind of introspection that makes me shake my head and say, “Well, that’s...oddly insightful.” Let the overthinking begin!
Curious
Curious
Chipper