This is one of my essays for my AP Language class, and, well it sort of reminded me of you guys *sniffles* and I wanted to share it with you. Of course, you probably won't read it because it doesn't feature boys fucking or anything cool. But. You should because you love me. Hopefully.
Bridjet Ely
On Finding the Heart
Ever since I can remember, which isn't an admirably long time, but it's still an amount of time, I've heard people talking about this one idea. It's an honestly nice idea. I don't mind it. In fact, I could probably learn to live with it if I tried hard enough. But I've never been one to overly exert myself with hopes of conforming to an idea, no matter how popular.
Home is where the heart is.
It's always led me to wonder, is it your home where the heart resides? Or the heart that will seek and find home? Because I can swear up and down, from a plethora of different days, of standing in front of my house. With the grey siding and brick base, big windows, and the shades to my room always down. I can guarantee of how many times I've stood, staring at this big place. My head is saying this is home. My heart, a place I've never fully trusted but respect in the same, is telling me home is far, far, far away.
I've spent my fair share of time pining over where my true home is. Searching desperately, as though maybe it's just around the corner. Then I turn onto the next street, low and behold, it's just not there. Close, but no cigar.
But I know a place where I can never deny it's alluring pull. Somewhere I'd fight for, somewhere I'd die for. A place that everyone knows, but no one really knows. Where everything can happen in the blink of an eye. All those things you thought you knew can be flipped upside down, then turned back to where they began. And you have to run just to stay in it's wake.
It's never the same, a different place, a different performance. In the same manner, it's always the same. Feelings, emotions, souls running rampant in a building. Where five hundred different people all meet each other and fall in love for a few hours. You don't have to know yourself, you meet yourself in that night.
Hours before I even get there, already, there's a thrum of electricity pumping in my veins and shooting through every expanse of my insides. When I stand there, looking at myself in a mirror as I apply thick, black, wet eyeliner, I already know I'll sweat it off. Honestly, I don't even care. I look forward to being covered, dripping, and still dancing. Pulling on an outfit I'll regret and heels I'll take off, and I can't wait for the Mexican shower that I'll be taking before the grand finale.
Then there's the tedious drive, and the god forsaken line outside the venue. Sometimes, it's so cold I can see my breath. Others, so hot that even standing still makes me collect beads of sweat on my forehead.
But inside? Inside, I'm burning. I'm bursting. I'm ready. I need this. Need like an addict who hasn't had a hit in too long. Like a dead man requires a casket for his funeral. I'm shaking, nervous with anticipation. The invisible hands are holding onto me, voices only I can hear purring. As though I need more enticing. They could tell me to get in I'd need to run a mile, and I would sprint.
My ticket is wet from how tight I'm holding on to it with my clammy hands. All the people around me are faceless. They're just extras in this show. The buses are in clear sight line, causing my already churning stomach to twist and knot just that much more. It hurts, how little I can wait.
Finally, past those big doors and bigger security guards. My luck almost always guarantees I'm the one randomly checked. I don't even notice it now. Usually, the house lights are up enough that you can differentiate your feet from your neighbors, and recognize a friend from a foot or two away. Any farther and it's a sea of easily mistaken identities.
There's a terrible wait, people filling in, techs and managers running rampant with their last minute schemes. Fans nudging each other and squeezing for the perfect view so they can preserve this moment on their Canon camera for ever.
Me? I stand way far left or right, strewn on the outer seams of the people quilt. Just close enough that I could still make something like eye contact with those on the stage, but they would never be able to hear me if I said something. I didn't bring my camera, because I have a memory.
Forever passes. Twice. Tick. Tock. Waiting for them. Anticipating them. Dancing to the opening acts, but saving those sweeter moves for a later time.
Sometimes, the announcers scream All Time Low. Others, Panic At The Disco. Maybe, Cobra Starship. Perhaps, The Academy Is. It's all the same idea. It's the same grand entrance. The reason all of us strangers are here, the reason we've been brought together. That single thing that unites all us freaks and pretty-primp-and-proper.
The music starts. Drop those house lights like a bad habit and feel a beat like something out of a movie. Suddenly, I am not real. I am no one. I am whoever I am. Suddenly, I can't stop moving. Can't stop screaming. Can't stop feeling.
I'm still not sure if I even buy into home being where the heart is. But those strangers, those musicians? They're the closest thing I get to finding it.