Tonite, I saw a
man in a wheelchair dancing better than I do. I
haven't danced in 4 or 5 years, which is about how long it's been since I felt truly alive.
Maybe that means something.
Tonite, I saw a foursome of armed forces members. They were being aggresively hit upon by a vixen in a Mötley Crüe tee, a denim skirt, and knee-high leather boots. Never before had I regretted not serving my country.
Maybe that means something.
Tonite, I sat in another dark, crowded bar, sipping libations and people-watching, jotting down thoughts and such onto a reporter's notebook. Once again, finding myself alone and anti-social. The 60-odd patrons of the establishment proceeded to live their lives without so much as an iota of hesitation or worry.
Maybe that means something.
Tonite, I got on a stage, with no one so much as rooting me on, and performed Green Day's Basket Case and nailed it on the head. People who hadn't noticed me sitting quietly in the corner clapped for me. I qualified for the semi-finals of a karaoke competition, somewhere in the top 4 of a meager 7 entrants, singing about neuroses and being undersexed.
Maybe that means something.
I'm not nearly objective enough to take an introspective glance at what these things mean exactly. Or perhaps, there's a fear gripping me that renders me unable to think about it analytically. Maybe I just had one too many Cap'n'n'cokes. All I know is that I sit here, qualified for a karaoke contest, alone, in a corner, sipping my drink and smoking my smokes, and I will head home shortly, without any feeling of accomplishment. Alone.
That means something.