My parents have an amusing story about me when I was still in my mother’s womb: I behaved well while my dad would blast rock music, but the moment it was Pink Floyd, I would start kicking to the beat of the songs. My mom noticed this and told my dad — they then experimented and played different bands to see how I’d react, but I was docile. They put on Pink Floyd, and again I kicked to the beat.

One of my distinct childhood memories is in our old apartment; I was blasting my dad’s Pink Floyd collection and sang along, air-guitaring to the solos. I was fully submerged in the music. There could be company over, but I was so lost in the music that I didn’t care.

At eight-years-old I developed a tradition of listening to Pink Floyd’s Darkside of the Moon alone in my room on my birthday. At midnight today the tradition continued; I spent time in solitude in my room listening to the album.

There’s a nostalgia, a child-like happiness I experience each year. To this day no other band has touched my soul like Pink Floyd. The experience is always therapeutic and euphoric to me. Until next year again.