(no subject)
Grove Street in Holden is an extraordinarily regular place, especially at midnight on a Thursday evening. Over six years of travel and memories were forged on this inauspicious road. From the seventh grade all the way to the present, I’ve driven hither and yon on that path too many times to chronicle. I’m cruising at a steady fourth gear speed, a comfortable pace for a rusty sixteen year old Toyota. Matt Bellemy’s voice pierces the night as my backseat speakers shudder and rattle from the excessively loud bass. New Born, most certainly a classic in the eyes of a Muse fan, permeates through “The Tercel”. As I sing along, voice cracking with the rise or every chorus and the climax of every pitch, I feel a rush of warmth. The warmth of an exuberant joy every lone driver feels when they sing, terribly perhaps, but thunderous and proud. And even though I know with out the music to overshadow my own voice, even the softest critic would cringe secretly. Still I feel a solitary moment of conquest that only I will ever know of. There is no need to share this snapshot with the world or anyone in it. It belongs solely to me. Those brief episodes, those ‘you had to be there moments’ are essential to character and identity. For every private pun uttered met with only your personal laughter to follow it, for every time a freak cloud front illuminates the night with a surreal glow, or somber moment of relaxed reflection over a remarkable odd there is a warm and content heart and smile to match it. These moments of clarity are as much a part of yourself as the freckles on your shoulders or the crook, gap or dark spot in your grin. Take Pride, feel honored, and simply remember these are instances of total perfection; not because they are flawless by any means, but because they are examples of your purest human substance. They are the tiniest most important cogs that make you tick.