A year...(yeah, so it's cheesy)
So it's nearly 7:00 on this stupid, nondescript, completely typical day in April, the month that only matters to those of us who believe that someone up there was so intent on saving us that they sacrificed something only to have the human race kill, vomit, rip, tear, plow, uproot, and shred this planet to pieces, and I'm sitting here listening to the news where 'they' have, after 40 years, caught up to and arrested the godfather of the Sicilian mafia. I've also discovered that my thought patterns, writing, thinking and everything have suddenly been warped into some ridiculous immitation of Faulker because my mind is stuck that way, my brain has rambled along with him for so long, that everything is stuck that way. There's this weird feeling that our lives will end before we're out of college, spurred on and encouraged by the news of Iran and how we're striking there next, and the news of the president of China coming over here to discuss this 'trade issue' with the United States. If he wants to collect on the debt, he can, god help us and happy Easter, and we'll all be cleaning houses and bringing breakfasts to old Chinese ladies and making three bucks an hour or we'll all be fending off warheads and a million man army who decides that they've bought enough of our phantom debt and want the real stuff now. And still, in my life, I've seen nothing of consequence, save a few faces, nearly a year ago now.
A year. Weird, isn't it? And yet there's this feeling that all of you are me anyway, so why should I miss it? It was the place and the time and the smells and the heat. It was walking in on a group you've never seen before and feeling, not a sinking in your stomach as they all stared at you, but a rising of something taking flight that never was there before, but has been inside you all this time, and it took the right pairs of eyes, as if they're all wearing special glasses, to see it. We all know that something in the very air we were breathing was so beautifully intoxicating that it frightened all of us. We clung to each other faster than is natural for human beings, which we were not, and now, sitting here, a few months before it will have been a year, I love and know you and feel you all still. I still have bright blue hair and I'm still sitting there, on a bench, on the steps, in the rat, sitting there with you or without you, but waiting for one moment, one second, one breath of that same wind that hit me then, to come in through this unfamiliar window and carry with it voices, laughter, tears, and you. That's what it all was about. The fact that 'you' meant something more than 'me' or 'I' and now, as all things sickening, plastic, and bland are assembling in the corners of all of our lives and the great loneliness is moving in with wicked claws, think back to that night on the Salem square when a few one-day musicians got together and played Eleanor Rigby. All the lonely people of that summer came from everywhere, but it doesn't matter, we're not lonely anymore.
A year. Weird, isn't it? And yet there's this feeling that all of you are me anyway, so why should I miss it? It was the place and the time and the smells and the heat. It was walking in on a group you've never seen before and feeling, not a sinking in your stomach as they all stared at you, but a rising of something taking flight that never was there before, but has been inside you all this time, and it took the right pairs of eyes, as if they're all wearing special glasses, to see it. We all know that something in the very air we were breathing was so beautifully intoxicating that it frightened all of us. We clung to each other faster than is natural for human beings, which we were not, and now, sitting here, a few months before it will have been a year, I love and know you and feel you all still. I still have bright blue hair and I'm still sitting there, on a bench, on the steps, in the rat, sitting there with you or without you, but waiting for one moment, one second, one breath of that same wind that hit me then, to come in through this unfamiliar window and carry with it voices, laughter, tears, and you. That's what it all was about. The fact that 'you' meant something more than 'me' or 'I' and now, as all things sickening, plastic, and bland are assembling in the corners of all of our lives and the great loneliness is moving in with wicked claws, think back to that night on the Salem square when a few one-day musicians got together and played Eleanor Rigby. All the lonely people of that summer came from everywhere, but it doesn't matter, we're not lonely anymore.