So, maybe it takes a few to get here.
Maybe it takes a stroll down Main Street to Midtown. Maybe it takes David Gray.
But this is truth. This is harmony.
Who knows what I mean? No one.
There’s this place in my memory inside the blinds, on the floor, moongazing.
That place is where life is. Where life happens. Where life happened.
A spot where no one could possibly know. A spot where dreams began and unbeknownst at the time…shattered.
It isn’t a puzzle. There ain’t no mystery. This is a writer’s reality. This dream unattainable forever out of reach. And only David Gray and Ozzy understand.
It’s a place I held years ago, thinking life was ahead of me. But life was there. I held it.
Odd how we never know.
Odd this life is. This beast we know not what to do.
That spot seemed endless in possibilities. The quiet night, the bright moon, the hushed house. The thoughts of a teenager. The loudest sound of them all.
What they don’t say. What they don’t tell you….is that feeling of naivity, innocence, bravery, loveliness is what the others long for. It’s what the older ones crave, wish back again and again. It’s what you’ll always wish for over and over. But in that moment, in that teenage oddness, you have no idea how many light years ahead you are. You have no idea how content you are, alone, without anyone, anything.
The lack of expectations, the lack of eyewitness news, the lack of disappointment. Ah, how wonderful life can be without the reality of disappointment, without the high, without the low.
You’ll never understand. Someone could tell you, and you still wouldn’t believe.
The nights you sit alone on your bedroom sanctuary are the ones you’ll crave even with a mate and a household of your own. You’ll crave that empowerement you never even realized. You’ll crave that oneness with God, that you had no idea was even there. You’ll crave how you believed life would be amazing, how you’d find that one friend/mate/etc who would know you, get you and crave you back.
14 years later you’ll wish you could go back to that moonlight. You’ll wish you could go back to the first time you heard Queensryche in the glow of your stereo system.
It won’t matter, though.
The years are through, they’ve vanished and gone. And somehow you find yourself drunk and wondering why those moonlight carpeted nights mean so much to you. Why those drunken adult nights mean so much to you.
You’ll find yourself on Main Street buying a shirt of the radio station call letters that helped begin your life. And you’ll buy the shirt, but in your cheapskateness, you’ll grample with the conviction of donating to the station as a member. Ugh, what’s $40 more?
You’ll wander down Main Street, make conversation with the past and realize, “Holy shit, maybe we’re not who we thought?”
You’ll ride the Trolley and wonder why you didn’t do this more as a young adult.
You’ll land. In that familiar, past eatery that you frequented in your dark years. You’ll sit, memories floating around/above you, you’ll sip that beer and become engrossed in what could have been. What should have been? Then, whip yourself back to your beautiful reality of, “What the hell are you thinking you psycho?”
This isn’t for interpretation. This isn’t open for analyzing.
This is just what it is. My words. Mine.
And censored they aren’t. Regarding others, they are not.
I am a writer. In its purest sense of the form.
I’m like a folded up, dried T-shirt that expands and comes to its truest form with a drop of water – except Bud Light and David Gray make me come live. Don’t judge, just accept.
Maybe this blog is a little more deep than we anticipated.
This is life. Life is rough and tough. Ugly when it’s beautiful. And pretty when it ain’t.
You ride the waves you’re given and write about the experiences as they come. Otherwise, you’re faking it.
And that my dear, ain’t me. I’m no fake. I’m nothing I shouldn’t be. Or at least I don’t think. Who knows?