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Your Sound and Being Seen in the Inbetweens
You go on walking the streets with this one rhythm you have had your entire life.
This one muffled beat that pounds steadier, louder, more definitive, more confidently than your own footsteps, your own heartbeat— it makes a song with your breaths, with your blinking— this one beating of the drum. It is your essence, it is your goddamn fucking song— it drives you insane, it comforts you— you hear it when you’re laying on your back, alone on your bed; when you turn off the shower, in your dreams; at the bus stop; between bites of food; when the other person stops talking to breathe; you move your hips to it when you dance, when you fuck; you feel it when you run or when you write; it is embedded in your laugh and in your sobs. And then one day, you’re walking the empty streets of Red River, stumbling for sanity, in search of the forsaken lights to hold you, love you, touch you— so there you are, right?— walking with the ghosts, like a ghost, charmed, but disenchanted and you hear it.
You hear it.
It is unmistakable.
That is you, over there, in the sky, in the atmosphere, bleeding from one venue into the next. The drumming from The Mohawk and the guitar riffs from Stubbs Outdoor— and whatever the fuck was going on at Emo’s is a part of you too. The drunk bitches crying and the secret sounds the red lights make when they change, change, change to green. That is you, that is you, that is you. In that moment, the song you’re living, and the harrowing whispers of the ghosts. This you and you know it.
