mall words. It’s small words that make you catch your breath. That guy in your class. You said in the slowest, softest whisper. Life is comprised not of time, but of moments strung together. It’s in these little words that we find our realist moments.

A very bad break up is something that you never quite get over. Come to terms with, yes. Move on, of course. But get over? Not really. And no break-up is ever more vivid than your first. When the floor is kind enough to rise up and greet your chin. The first time someone rips your heart out, shows it to you, and then shoves it back into your chest, it’s a pure, almost clean, hurt. And one that we never really feel again because, after that first one, we develop a veneer – a steel. Be it wafer-thin or thick as a dam, it grows there, despite what we may think.

Byron said men can separate their heads and their hearts and women can’t. As the saying goes – men love the women they fuck and women fuck the men they love. But heartache knows no gender boundaries. It’s one of the few times the sexes are truly equal.

Which brings me in a roundabout manner to my first heartache. I had never experienced that kind of pain and I didn’t know what to do with it or where to put it. So I found something that would translate my pain into something I could understand and process: music. The song that got me through this debut break-up is Dylan’s “Most of the Time”. The operative little word is ‘most’. It clarifies all before and after it by asserting that everything is far from okay.

First of all let me say that I never really liked Dylan. It’s his voice, obviously. Gnawing at you like a puppy’s milk teeth. Though he tries so hard it still annoys. But with his word’s he hits the emotional target time and again without ever resorting to maudlin or indulgent whining.

The opening melody of “Most of the Time” is tantamount to crumpling your chest onto your knees and sobbing. Not crying, but silent mouthed, full-body sobbing. Then the song’s narrative follows the course of a break-up. The first part is ‘a little bruised but fine’ (!I can handle whatever I stumble upon / I don't even notice she's gone”). Next comes denial (“I can survive / I can endure / And I don't even think about her”). The third part is ‘bring on the rebound!’ (“She ain't even in my mind / I wouldn't know her if I saw her / She's that far behind”), followed by the final realisation that you have to face the pain (“I don't cheat on myself / I don't run and hide / Hide from the feelings / that are buried inside”).

Mid break-up, I was food shopping with my roommate and I heard this song, done in super-market muzak style, piped over the PA system. It didn’t matter that it was a feather-light pop-a-licious version; I fell down on the cart and wept right in the cereal aisle. My insides were turned outside for the entire population of suburban moms to see, and I didn’t fucking care. It was a Pavlovian reflex. Hear this song; cry.

A good friend once told me that you could only truly love someone once you have had your heart broken and broken someone else’s in return, because then you understand both sides. You reach equilibrium. I have seen both sides. And they both suck, in little ways and in stellar ones. The best you can hope for is a song to help you through it. And a shed load of booze.