A/Part

Twenty-five thousand people swell out of the wide open gates, racing onward to new destinations, spreading like veins in a river to their respective destinations: clubs, lawns, forest parties where the beer is cheap. I love this spirit, like everyone is going somewhere, and knowing that the city is full of people who normally wouldn't be here, or who would be home watching television, she says. She loves the feeling that the town is alive, that somebody else is sprinting around madly, hoping for fun. I take her keys, begin the walk home. Not tired, but too weary to run alongside her. Too weary to endure their eager eyes and their bleeding hearts singing in unison.

The town's most beloved son returns, ten years after that record, and a sea of his disciples screams every word as tears run down their faces. Holding hands, they revel in the Bigness of it all and the feeling that they were not alone in feeling it. Once the storm has passed, voices proclaim their amazement, and their joy in how far they've come since those teenage years and the endless despair.

I remember when the album came; I remember who I was. Ten years later, and not much has changed. I leave the gig indifferent, or, perhaps, a little further from the masses still. His sad stumblings across these streets and his outstretched hand ended, eventually. He goes home tonight to his wife and his children and his success. How beautiful that is, they say, and leave content, knowing the same awaits them once their beer glasses are empty.

As I walk the last paces to the apartment, the air is so quiet that my footsteps make a dizzying sound in my ears. Far away, the after parties send beats drifting in through the balcony door of the empty house. I stare at the screen, too much to say and still no peace of mind to say it. If a tree fell in the forest and no one heard it, did it make a sound? I bruised my knees, regardless.