ride
It was an impromptu event last night. Strange how things fall into place. Found myself bundled in some sleeping bags, a borrowed winter coat and munching on some chips at the side of the half-pipe. Pitch black out there, save for the lit rosy ends of cigarettes, low, glowing pipe bowls of weed and the stars that follow on a cold, crisp night.
I was shocked and pleasantly surprised to see some familiar faces. Although, I'm sure I wasn't to them. I remember waiting outside of shows, listening quietly, too shy to contribute anything but a quick, friendly smile if a look was thrown my way. I remember being painfully shy, wanting so badly to be called over, to be asked to come drink somewhere, in an alley, in a basement with them. So funny. I feel light years away from that person, but still find myself in the same spot. Off to the side, quietly observing as they throw junk into the trash can fire, listening to their bottles clink and dumb laughter. It almost doesn't seem fair, to feel so different and old, but they're still the same. Untouched, unmarked. It's almost deju vu.
I don't know why it made me so melancholy.
Even as we drove away and through downtown, I couldn't shake the sensation and barely spoke a peep. Just stared out the window, capturing glimpses of corners and concrete steps and reliving memories and the feelings associated with them. Small, urban souvenirs. Thank someone, not God, but someone, for nightly car rides and cool air. There's something so cleansing about soaring through your city streets, listening to the humble chatter of friends, and feeling the breeze. I don't know what bizarre universal law it is about music, but whatever it happens to be, whatever CD your driver throws on, whatever happens to be spinning on heavy rotation through the car stereo is always so fitting for nightly car rides. You're in the backseat with the windows down and the breeze is strong and cold but you've never felt quite so warm.
I was shocked and pleasantly surprised to see some familiar faces. Although, I'm sure I wasn't to them. I remember waiting outside of shows, listening quietly, too shy to contribute anything but a quick, friendly smile if a look was thrown my way. I remember being painfully shy, wanting so badly to be called over, to be asked to come drink somewhere, in an alley, in a basement with them. So funny. I feel light years away from that person, but still find myself in the same spot. Off to the side, quietly observing as they throw junk into the trash can fire, listening to their bottles clink and dumb laughter. It almost doesn't seem fair, to feel so different and old, but they're still the same. Untouched, unmarked. It's almost deju vu.
I don't know why it made me so melancholy.
Even as we drove away and through downtown, I couldn't shake the sensation and barely spoke a peep. Just stared out the window, capturing glimpses of corners and concrete steps and reliving memories and the feelings associated with them. Small, urban souvenirs. Thank someone, not God, but someone, for nightly car rides and cool air. There's something so cleansing about soaring through your city streets, listening to the humble chatter of friends, and feeling the breeze. I don't know what bizarre universal law it is about music, but whatever it happens to be, whatever CD your driver throws on, whatever happens to be spinning on heavy rotation through the car stereo is always so fitting for nightly car rides. You're in the backseat with the windows down and the breeze is strong and cold but you've never felt quite so warm.