The pounding and the lights

I’ve tried to hang in a lot of places. I’ve seen all sorts of people gathered together having a good time. I’ve seen how the different sects of my age seem to struggle to have fun.

I’ve noticed how my uncles try to live day-by-day for one night, throwing budget concerns out the window, piling their paltes high, emptying bottle after bottle of whatever darkliquid they had handy. I didn’t understand.

I walked through clubs where the lights would pulsate as hard as the music. Where bodies seemed to move in unison but individually. All thrusting away in darkness with nobody at all but themselves, lost in the beat. They close their eyes dreaming on the dance floor. I didn’t understand.

I have met people who congregate in order to discuss a world which existed on a plotted map, walked by characters framed after who they wished to be. They live a life on a board that is dictated by the roll of dice. They long to live on the edge of a sword in front of an unseen evil. They live their fairy tales during the midday. I didn’t understand.

I have gone to see bands play loud rock music from instruments with great passion. the crowd moves with great anger, a beast wanting to hurt itself. The people hurl themselves at each other, not worried about the damage they put themselves or others to. Flying bottles and spinning belt buckles, they wage war when there are no more lines. I didn’t understand.

I have been with readers and writers who exist silently with each other. They exchange ideas they do not fight for, talking in hushed voices among other people, afraid of being pointed out. They live in the corners where they hope not to be noticed and are anything but. Their choices seem to have been made with the urgence of being different. They wanted nothing from other people but to be accepted and yet they do very well at pushing others away. I didn’t understand.

I feel suspended in water, watching others live their own lives. They seem to have conviction in their choices while I am a chameleon walking among them. my friends are so different from each other . . . I don’t believe that anybody can paint a picture of me based on who my friends are. I don’t believe that I can be painted into a picture.

I don’t believe I know myself enough to know what I am really like, even by how I escape.