I think I've kinda lost sight of why I blog. It's become evident to me over the last few posts that my Machiavellian desire to become adored by many has shortened my vision as to why I post for the few. To that end, I had an ol' skool Fleekin Floygn emo realization today. This may not be that funny, but hey, I got needs too. Not made of stone, people; just various scraps of other people's souls and vodka.
There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.
Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.
He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.
Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...