worry and love: a devotion to an obsession to a love
i worry about stupid things sometimes.
stupid if only because i don't know the people i worry about, and it's not my place to worry.
how is it any of my business if ryanross is killing himself with cocaine and booze, that he's addicted, an addict, his father?
how is it my business that patrick, marvelous, beautiful, golden, magic patrick stump, might be starving himself, that he looks unhealthy, that he's the kind of thin thin razor sharp thin that he's never been, even when he was tiny and young and jailbait?
how is it my business, how is it my place to worry that brendon's drinking is a problem, that it's too much, that he could be hurting himself and his friends and his world, loosing them at the bottom of a margarita glass?
and how is it my place to worry that pete wentz is going to self destruct all over again, best buy all over again, that his eyes have gone sad and he's stopped smiling and atavanhalen all over again?
i worry, even though it's not my place.
because i've grown up on these boys, these faces, these words and voices and passions.
i've been influenced by their devotion and talent, taught and caressed through their messages into something new and self sufficient and accepting.
the fires of my own passions have been stoked and fed into something big and roaring and beautiful by pete's and ryan's words, never quite perfect, but so so flawless in their faults.
my voice has rung out high and clear in the sway of brendon's and patrick's notes, their musical genius, so total and wondrous.
i feel like i know them so well, although i truly know nothing.
i may never meet these boys and men who have made my life bareable and who have changed me so, but i will worry, it being my place or not.
we all hold some love for them, in all their antics and actions and mistakes and trials.
i love you, though we will never meet.
stupid if only because i don't know the people i worry about, and it's not my place to worry.
how is it any of my business if ryanross is killing himself with cocaine and booze, that he's addicted, an addict, his father?
how is it my business that patrick, marvelous, beautiful, golden, magic patrick stump, might be starving himself, that he looks unhealthy, that he's the kind of thin thin razor sharp thin that he's never been, even when he was tiny and young and jailbait?
how is it my business, how is it my place to worry that brendon's drinking is a problem, that it's too much, that he could be hurting himself and his friends and his world, loosing them at the bottom of a margarita glass?
and how is it my place to worry that pete wentz is going to self destruct all over again, best buy all over again, that his eyes have gone sad and he's stopped smiling and atavanhalen all over again?
i worry, even though it's not my place.
because i've grown up on these boys, these faces, these words and voices and passions.
i've been influenced by their devotion and talent, taught and caressed through their messages into something new and self sufficient and accepting.
the fires of my own passions have been stoked and fed into something big and roaring and beautiful by pete's and ryan's words, never quite perfect, but so so flawless in their faults.
my voice has rung out high and clear in the sway of brendon's and patrick's notes, their musical genius, so total and wondrous.
i feel like i know them so well, although i truly know nothing.
i may never meet these boys and men who have made my life bareable and who have changed me so, but i will worry, it being my place or not.
we all hold some love for them, in all their antics and actions and mistakes and trials.
i love you, though we will never meet.