The morning's hot and harsh.
My notebook fills itself.
The words come thick with sweat.
But it feels like someone else
is writing all of this.
Someone I just can't believe
So I mop my brow, set my pen back down.
Still me, still me
I blame Kevin Devine. I blame him for getting me into this mess, for getting me out, and putting me back into introspective thinking. The night I decided to quit my job I listened to this Brooklyn boy, and here I am, about a month later, listening again. Trying to figure it out, make sense of life and where it brings you—ow I ended up laying in this bed in this apartment and why it happened. I guess I'm just trying to figure out what my place is in this world. And why Kevin Devine, and sometimes Oprah, always make me think there's reason behind it all.
I'm glad I went to the show on Sunday. After a late night on Saturday at Pat's show, I spent much of the day in a lethargic daze, unable to envision returning to Brooklyn, let alone the same street less than 24 hours since I left it. I tried stealing some of Katie's excitement before, but found myself only harboring in on monetary situations, a conversation I had with my father earlier in the day, and the utter desire for the sigh that would be Monday. But I couldn't.
It took a few songs for me to feel lost (in a good way) in the beautiful Music Hall Of Williamsburg. Upon walking in, all I could think of was the wonder I once felt walking into North Six and how this, like everything, has been renovated, made anew. Once I put that mourning behind me, and found myself staring wide-eyed at the red-headed singer in front of me, I decided that everything was going to be okay. Because if Kevin says so, I have to believe him, right?
How could I not.
2 Comments:
that is pretty much how Kevin makes me feel too.
and I think that's okay.
thank you!
yeah, this really captures the feeling of the evening. except for the part where that guy burped in my face.
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