Jack White comes to Stockholm, Jack White with his black curls and razor fingertips, with his elven band members and one hundred guitars, Jack White and his fire. I leave my simmering word processor and screaming playlists on legs trembling with hunger to feel just a moment of his passion.
This is what I've chosen to do, he says, I can't help myself, and the stadium walls explode. You owe it to your art. I close my eyes and breathe in the violent dances of music, revel in the pause from my own feelings and woes. Does it not seem exhausting to carry one's own emotions around at all times, to air their dirty laundry in tired breezes of indifference? Perhaps that is the point of all this deafening music, lately: not to ward off the demons of my interior, but to silence the voice that manically binges and purges on them, that rehashes them to the perverse.
Perhaps it's time for a different beat, a blank page, a new story to tell. Because I want my chest to always vibrate as it does now.
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