Everyone is passionate about music.

That one artist.

Growing up

the world is cruel,

but you find a way to keep waking up.

Every morning,

again and again,

and you don’t know how.

Everyone has an artist that they hand-hold

and head-shake.

An imaginary friend.

A rocky start and misguided sadness.

You hear your heavy-weighted footsteps

in empty high school hallways.

You know it’s time to leave.

Clanking of metal lockers.

The bells have stopped in synchrony.

Time is spinning backwards in your mind.

All these memories

and

moments.

You think

you wonder

you realize

all of a sudden!

like a -thunk- in your gut.

You can’t get anything back

once it’s gone.

Even the bad things.

Even the sad things.

A melancholy feeling.

You hated it

here

but you liked the little things.

Carrying your notebooks around.

Those chairs.

The way the teacher knew your name.

You’re just hanging on

to what

you can’t

have

anymore.

You don’t want to go quite yet.

This is predictable.

You know what you get.

You hit play

on your old discman

and it comes up,

through the cable,

and into your ear.

Neural connections

click-clicking

into nodes

shouting to other nodes

that say

 

it’s okay.

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