Music Monday, week 3. (Last Of The Wilds)

Choosing an instrumental, and choosing this one

There’s something intentional about choosing an instrumental for Monday Music. It immediately removes direction. There are no lyrics telling you what to think, no clear message laid out in front of you, no lines to hold onto. You’re left with sound, and whatever your mind decides to do with it.

That feels important at the start of a week.

I chose Last of the Wilds by Nightwish because it does something very specific for me. It simmers the mind. It doesn’t switch my thoughts off completely, but it quiets them enough that they stop fighting for attention. Everything slows down just enough to breathe again.

When this song is playing, my mind becomes open rather than crowded. Sometimes it drifts. Sometimes it builds stories. Sometimes it goes nowhere at all. And all of that feels okay. The music doesn’t push me in any direction. It lets my thoughts move freely, or rest, or wander into places I didn’t realise I needed to visit.

That’s not something a lot of music does.

On Mondays especially, my head can feel loud before the week has even properly started. Lists, expectations, unfinished thoughts, things waiting to be dealt with. This song gently lowers the volume on all of that. It creates a space where I’m not reacting yet. I’m just present.

What I love most is that it never feels empty. The calm isn’t blank or numbing. It’s alive. The melody carries enough warmth and movement to keep me grounded, while still leaving room for imagination. It’s relaxing without being passive. Peaceful without disappearing into the background.

This is why I come back to it. Not because it distracts me from my thoughts, but because it gives them somewhere safe to land. Somewhere they don’t need to be solved or explained.

For me, that makes it a perfect Monday song. A way to gently settle the mind before the week starts asking questions I’m not ready to answer yet.

How the music moves

Last of the Wilds doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly and then slowly expands, as if it’s testing how much space it’s allowed to take up. The melody repeats, but never mechanically. Each return feels slightly altered by whatever mood you’re in when you’re listening.

There’s a steady pulse beneath it, but it never feels urgent. The rhythm doesn’t drive you forward. It holds you in place. That distinction matters. Instead of creating momentum, the music creates continuity. It gives the feeling that you’re moving, but not towards anything specific.

What makes the song compelling is its restraint. No part of it tries to dominate. The instruments coexist rather than compete, leaving room between notes. That space is where the song really lives. In the pauses. In the moments when nothing is trying to fill the silence for you.

As it unfolds, the music starts to feel less like something you’re listening to and more like something you’re inside. It becomes a kind of environment. One that changes depending on what you bring with you. Some listens feel expansive. Others feel introspective. The song adapts without ever changing itself.

There’s also a subtle tension running through it. Not discomfort, but awareness. A reminder that calm doesn’t mean empty, and stillness doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Beneath the surface, the song carries memory, movement, and emotion, but it never insists that you notice them.

By the time it reaches its later moments, the music feels settled, but not finished. Like a thought that’s been allowed to stretch out fully rather than being rushed to a conclusion. It leaves you with a sense of openness rather than resolution, which is rare and quietly powerful.

This is where the song shifts from being something you hear into something you experience. Not as background, not as distraction, but as a space you can step into for a few minutes. And once you’ve been there, it’s hard not to want to return.

Where it takes my mind

Once the song settles in, something shifts internally. My thoughts stop lining up in neat rows. They loosen. Instead of jumping from one worry to the next, my mind starts to wander in a way that feels natural rather than chaotic.

This is where Last of the Wilds becomes more than background music for me. It turns my head into an open space. Sometimes that space fills with images. Wide landscapes. Long roads. Forests. Old memories I haven’t thought about in years. Other times it stays almost empty, just a quiet awareness that I’m here, listening, breathing, existing without needing to justify it.

What I find interesting is that the song doesn’t steer this process. It doesn’t guide my thoughts toward anything specific. It doesn’t tell a story I have to follow. Instead, it allows my imagination to take the lead. My mind becomes whatever it needs to be in that moment. Creative. Reflective. Still. Curious. Sometimes all of those things at once.

There’s a freedom in that. Especially in a world that constantly asks us to focus, decide, produce, and respond. This song feels like the opposite of that demand. It doesn’t require attention in a sharp or disciplined way. It invites attention that’s soft and flexible. Attention that can drift without feeling guilty about it.

On days when my thoughts feel heavy, the song gives them room to stretch out without pressure. On days when my mind feels cluttered, it gently clears space without forcing anything out. It doesn’t solve problems or offer insight directly. It just creates the conditions where thinking feels less tense and more honest.

That’s why this track stays with me. Not because it gives me answers, but because it changes the environment in which my thoughts are happening in. And sometimes, that change is enough to make everything else feel a little more manageable.

When the world gets too loud, this song has a way of switching my mind off without leaving me feeling empty. When things start piling up and everything feels like too much, it takes me somewhere else entirely. A quiet, secluded beach. A peaceful fishing spot where time stretches out and nothing exists beyond the water in front of me. In those moments, everything melts away and the world becomes small again. It’s just me, the line, the patience, and the quiet battle between myself and the fish.

That’s the beauty of this song. It never rushes you. It never overwhelms you. It stays calm, steady, and open, allowing you to shape it into whatever you need it to be in that moment. Some music tells you a story. This one lets you step into your own. And in doing that, it gives you a rare kind of peace that doesn’t ask anything from you in return.

The quiet emotional weight

The power of Last of the Wilds lives in what it holds back. It never reaches for emotion in an obvious way, never swells or breaks open to tell you how to feel. Instead, it carries everything beneath the surface, like something ancient and steady moving under calm water. You can sense it’s there without ever seeing it clearly.

There’s a deep feeling of longing threaded through the song, but it isn’t directed at anything specific. It’s not grief for a person or a place you can name. It feels more like longing for a state of being. For space. For slowness. For a way of living that feels more instinctive and less managed. Less measured. Less watched.

That’s where the emotional weight settles for me. In the idea that something essential has drifted away over time. Not stolen or destroyed, just slowly replaced by noise, urgency, and constant demand. The song feels aware of that loss, but it doesn’t mourn it loudly. It acknowledges it quietly, with patience and restraint.

There’s also a sense of distance in the music, like it’s standing slightly outside the modern world and observing it from afar. It doesn’t belong to schedules, notifications or expectations. It feels rooted in something older. Something tied to land, rhythm, and movement that existed before everything became accelerated. Listening to it feels like stepping back into that older rhythm, even if only briefly.

What I find most affecting is how safe the song feels emotionally. It allows feeling without forcing confrontation. You’re not pushed to unpack your thoughts or reach conclusions. You’re allowed to carry whatever you’re carrying without being asked to explain or resolve it. The music doesn’t demand vulnerability. It simply makes space for it.

That kind of emotional safety is rare. Especially in a world that constantly asks us to articulate ourselves, justify ourselves, and move forward with clarity. This song doesn’t require clarity. It understands that sometimes you don’t have language for what you feel, and that doesn’t make it any less real.

There’s strength in that understanding. A quiet resilience that runs through the track from start to finish. It never fractures under its own weight. It never rushes toward release. It holds its ground. That steadiness feels like endurance. Like survival, not through resistance, but through grounding yourself in something solid and unchanging.

Listening to it reminds me that calm doesn’t mean the absence of depth. Often, calm is what allows depth to exist without overwhelming you. It gives emotion somewhere to rest. Somewhere to move slowly. Somewhere to be felt without becoming too much.

This song doesn’t numb anything. It doesn’t distract or dissolve emotion. It gathers it gently and holds it at a distance that feels manageable. And in doing that, it offers something incredibly rare. A sense of gravity without heaviness. Presence without pressure. Weight that grounds rather than pulls you under.

That’s why it stays with me. Not because it overwhelms, but because it anchors. It reminds me that there is value in stillness, in patience, in listening to what isn’t being said. And sometimes, that quiet understanding carries more emotional truth than anything loud ever could.

Carrying this into the week

This is why Last of the Wilds belongs in Monday Music.

Mondays have a way of arriving all at once. Even before the week has properly started, there’s pressure waiting. Things to respond to. Things to plan. Expectations that don’t care how rested or ready you feel. It can feel like you’re already behind before you’ve taken a breath.

This song creates a pause before all of that takes over.

It doesn’t prepare you for the week in the way productivity culture would like. It doesn’t motivate or energise or sharpen you. Instead, it gives you a moment to arrive as you are. Calm or tired. Clear-headed or scattered. It meets you where you’re standing, not where you think you should be.

What I appreciate most is that it doesn’t try to move you forward too quickly. It reminds me that starting the week doesn’t have to mean charging into it. Sometimes it’s enough to begin by settling your thoughts, grounding yourself, and allowing a bit of quiet before the noise returns.

I carry this song into the week because it helps me remember that not everything needs to be urgent. Not everything needs to be solved straight away. There’s value in moving slowly, in listening carefully, in letting your inner world find its footing before the outside world starts demanding attention.

Last of the Wilds doesn’t follow me through the entire week. It doesn’t need to. Its job is quieter than that. It creates the conditions for the week to begin gently. To start from a place of steadiness rather than reaction.

That’s what Monday Music is for me. Not a reset. Not a fix. Just a moment of stillness at the edge of the week. One song. A few minutes. Enough space to breathe before everything else begins.

And sometimes, that’s all you really need.

Your choices this week

This week, around twenty songs came in. Different genres, different moods, different places. Rock, love songs and heartbreak songs, Latin, reggae, a lot of indie bands and artists. On the surface, they couldn’t be more different. But listening through them, there was a common thread running quietly underneath all of it.

Meaning. They all have meaning, songs chosen or created, they all have meaning.

There’s something genuinely special about indie artists and bands. They don’t get the recognition they deserve. They don’t get played on repeat on the radio. They don’t have huge budgets behind them or teams shaping their sound for mass appeal. Most of the time, they’re creating because they have to. Because there’s something they need to say.

Music is a powerful thing. It can create emotion, and it can shut it down. It can lift you up or sit with you in the darkest places. It can save a life. It can change how you see the world, or help you understand how someone else feels about you. In just a few minutes, it can tell an entire story. A million words, without saying very much at all.

We all listen to mainstream music. I do too. Songs on the radio, played over and over again. Same chorus, same structure, same feeling, sometimes even repeated within the same hour. A lot of it is produced for money, by money, and somewhere along the way the meaning gets lost in the noise. The message disappears in the rush to be bigger, louder, richer.

Indie music feels different.

A lot of these artists aren’t making much money. Some aren’t making any at all. They’re in the same place as a lot of writers, including this one. Creating because it matters. Because it’s how they make sense of things. Because it’s how they stay alive, in their own way.

You can hear it in the songs. Every word has weight. Every note has intention. There’s soul in it. Passion. Vulnerability. They pour everything they have into their music, the same way I try to pour everything I have into my writing.

That’s why I wanted to pause here and say this.

If you like what you hear below, don’t just listen. Share it. Like it. Follow them. Let them know their music landed somewhere. Give them the confidence to keep going. Give them the love they deserve. It matters more than you think.

And if you didn’t send a song this week, get involved next time. Show me the songs that keep you going. The songs that give your days meaning. The ones that make you smile, or cry, or feel understood. The ones that saved you when nothing else could.

Enjoy the songs below.

(Edit) all the songs (past, present and future) will all be added onto a playlist on Spotify…

👉Spotify link👈

(Yes alot of work is going into Monday Music)

THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY

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