For West is where we all plan to go some day. It is where you go when the land gives out and the old-field pines encroach. It is where you go when you get the letter saying: Flee, all is discovered. It is where you go when you look down at the blade in your hand and the blood on it. It is where you go when you are told that you are a bubble on the tide of empire. It is where you go when you hear that thar’s gold in them-thar hills. It is where you go to grow up with the country. It is where you go to spend your old age. Or it is just where you go
I wanted to write it down. Before I forgot. Before I forgot to tell you that if there’s one thing you do, you must come here. That if I had seen it sooner, it would have been my destination every single Friday night, despite the wait.
How intoxicating it was to witness such ripe words spoken; forcefully, deliberately, unrelentingly. In person. Face to face. Unmitigated. And human. The acuteness of your pain, your striving, your disappointment, your humor, your surrender, your unthinkable fight. How I understood you better through your voice. How I feel too much. How I felt every word.
The reminder alone that there is a place for these things that we think and do not say. And sometimes that place is aloud. How fed I was, and buzzed, sober at 2am. And also, alive.