After the Show

Alone after the show. Its nice staring into a beautiful face making beautiful noises with beautiful expressions and a crowd that cares less than you. You know why you're there, you're special, you have a reason. Those moments are magical, and you know it.
But you're still alone after the show.
You say things, and you think people will care. You think someone listens and cherishes and maybe once thinks that you are art. But who will? Maybe someone does, but they are no one. They aren't what you thought they were, their meaning to you lost in the rest of you. Am I the only person that thinks that no one is never enough for them, most especially myself?
Its hard to believe in things that fade and die. Love is a blossom, young and beautiful, with the depth of color that is more than you can say. But it always, always, dies in winter. And then another blossom, sometime. Do I have to have a new blossom every spring? Can't I keep one, just once? No. Because that's not the way it works.
Music. That's a love I can have any way I want. Music is totally renewable, it never runs out on you. It never stops giving or being. If you don't like it, you find different music. You have one magical night together, and never meet again. Or you can dedicate yourself to it every day for your whole life, and it will change you and change for you and be the perfect relationship you never had.
Unfortunately, though. It will never be your companion. You're still alone after the show.

When I'm Angry

I actually do say things I mean. That's pretty bad.
I am so intolerant of... everything.
I can be ugly and vain and harsh.
Unabashedly so.

Until I hate myself.
Not that I really wanted to bite my tongue. Speaking your mind is a means to an end.
But that I hurt people. Every time.

I just give it all, I guess.
I always do. All my good, all my bad.
If you're close, that's what you get.
You get it all.

The luckiest friends of mine are those that are far away.
They get the phone calls filled with rationality and wisdom, charm and wit overflowing.
The great vat of understanding and beautiful things to share.
I feel sorry for the ones I need the most, because they get it all.
There's just too much of me.
Don't feel bad, though.
I can't handle it, either.
Myself, that is.

Eric

"Hey- you're watching me type this right now." I felt very clever . My first heart pounding moment associated with Eric was a few hours later, a response in my inbox, "Hey. You're not watching me type this right now. How mysterious of me." And just like that, we became very very You've Got Mail. His emails were the highlights of my days. For many days.
It took a very long time to break down his walls. But once I did, it was so worth it. He was the breath of fresh air you've never had. His romance is that which made me squirm and blush. I couldn't figure out if we could really handle each other, but I guess that once made everything exciting. We're both very intense in different ways.
I think he fell in love with me.
But he has shown me so much. Allen Ginsberg and My Bloody Valentine and how I had forgotten how much I love meditating. I have dreams, and I tell them to him.
But now we have turned back time, before hanging out or warm hand in cold hand. I keep forgetting to give Ragged Point Road back to him.
Sometimes, you just run out. Of interest, I guess. Its horrible. Depressing. But its life.