It's a strange paradise.

It is always the what-could-have-beens that make you stare unsmilingly into thin air, as you look pensively into a future that is fast becoming a past. There is the lost opportunity to rub shoulders with the rich and famous; the misplaced jottings with a story of your life that may well be the inspiration for the next Hollywood tearjerker; the stolen kisses for a rosy-cheeked girl you never knew you knew.

They are not regrets, but bits and pieces of your life that can never be. We could have the brightest of all mornings, make the most of the magic hour, and paint the most spectacular sunset at this end of the universe – and yet completely and unashamedly falter, crash and burn at the end of it.

This quick tightening of your chest and sudden longing in your heart seems to kill you softly from within. Some songs do that to you: they could either come in a powerful rush of emotions containing just the right amount of melancholia to drown your sorrows, or bestow upon you enough hope and faith to erase all your worries in the world, eventually leaving you to stumble about uncomprehendingly after being led abruptly from dark to light.

And it is the song, and this song in particular, that could turn even the deepest night into a most welcomed morning. You may laugh at the pictures of romantic sandy beaches and spacious seaside dwellings that you can never afford turning up in your Google search, but the fact is, a song as huge and hypnotic as this deserves more attention than you ever will.

Eat your cake.

I have never heard the band being played on the radio. But I have had the chance to hear them on television twice; I was merely channel surfing on a lazy Saturday afternoon and stumbled upon “Slow Show” during an episode of Chuck; another time, the familiar strums to “Start a War” came on just before the credits rolled on for Friday Night Lights. Here, the songs merely took a backseat and played softly in the background; nevertheless, those close encounters left me with goosebumps, and I paid little attention to the onscreen spy couple discussing their romantic relationship and left the enthusiastic sports coach to give a high five to his winning players.

It has been six months since that one memorable day in November 2011, and every day I am reminded of the fact that while I may not have been able to locate and purchase copies of their albums from a local music store like a regular music lover would (and hardly bat an eyelid at paying additional killer shipping charges to online retailers), I have at least had the opportunity to attend one of their shows in this part of the world, although I must have undoubtedly made a fool of myself by singing along unabashedly to each and every song that they played live right before me.

But the memory of that life-changing event still lingers – there was the burning anticipation leading up to that day; the awestruck feeling of finally seeing the idols in the flesh for the first time; the thunderous applause and wild cheers that erupted all around after every song; the spent excitement and sad realisation when the hours inevitably drew to an end; the massively-moving acoustic sing-along session that made a perfect closer to the show – all that is simply enough to light up even the darkest days and leave me with a sheepish smile on my face.

The best things in life do not need to come in big and gaily-wrapped packages; they are the ones that are already yours and always available, waiting to be uncovered and cherished forever more.

Municipality.

It is easy to pin the blame on the weather: there is the sunny disposition of psychedelic guitar sounds, idle hours spent fuelling our faraway fantasies and daydreams, breezy tunes evoking fond memories of times past, and cool late night writings encouraged by warm mugs of hot chocolate.

Add in a dash of yellow daisies, blue butterflies chasing each other across green rolling hills, and the occasional cotton-white rabbit-shaped clouds, and you are almost good to go.

But in truth, the album really does give more than enough reasons for you to do nothing else other than just lie back heavily with a wistful sigh, with your hands carefully placed behind your head, and just let it all wash over you like the summer rain. It becomes a sort of a balm – a musical healing wonder if you will – that will have you emerge rejuvenated soon after the clouds have parted, leaving a hopeful sliver of the sun to shine through.

So it might still be somewhat premature to declare it as another personal High Violet or Sky Blue Sky, but that is what Real Estate’s Days is increasingly becoming to me.

Let it be.