Spoiler alert: This is lethargic.
Tonight, I broke a sweet mother's heart and she couldn't appreciate it.
I met up with the very first girl with whom I ever went on a date. I was a high school freshman, my best friend wasn't dead yet, and I arranged a cute little get together for a campfire to celebrate what while I believe must've been the 4th of July, although as I age I find my memories get lost to what is, at best, a dream state running as a background program to an already overburdened program. I try not to dwell on this, as I learn the long-term ramifications to going to bed angry.
It was just the sweetest. We roasted marshmallows, played with fire, but at the end of the night an antisocial, and at the time unsocialized child like me wouldn't even lean in for a kiss. As we met for a post-shift date at my work, this is how we greeted each other.
She had reappeared into my digital space via Facebook, and while I suspected it was her, I couldn't quite tell for sure until I saw her. I saw a smile that had thought it died. She told me about her three young boys, her miserable ex-husband and her disillusionment with tradition.
I hated talking about myself. All I had were solo tales about dancing thru the streets of America. We met several times after this, and last night I was invited over a week ago to join them in a local dive known as "Hazzards," to dance with her and a friend. I constantly insisted that my punk rock inspired brand of ballet/tap isn't for cowgirls who just wanna bump and grind. So finally, as I got home with my wings in hand and two messages giving a time of planned arrival, I sent a short possibly cute message back saying I couldn't possibly attend. I am an artist. A human being. Not a pigeonholed degenerate contented or at all satiated by slave culture. Slaves have no culture. Everything we could ever share with one another is reinterpretation of something higher on a pyramid of impossible dimension.
This leaves me at home aloe again against a maelstrom of paranoia, grief and sickness. Both doubting the fact that I could ever recreate the romance of my dance with New York, and hating myself for not trying. Yet no small part of me cares.
