Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Doesn't hurt me to be free...

I went out with the boys from the tattoo studio last night, out to a concert at the Key Club on Sunset.

The band was amazing, the company was attractive all around, the club itself was packed way beyond capacity and the occupants were screaming along with each song.

It wasn't my scene, wasn't my world.

As each meticulously made up petite faux-blonde passed me, I felt more and more out of my element. These girls were so young, so groomed, so very sculpted for this lifestyle. I try to imagine growing up in a household where money is no issue, and the thought of potentially spoiling one's child never occurs. When a way of living allows for hours of grooming, of getting wasted or spun each night, of so much money dropped on clothes and accessories.

Stress free.

Well, not stress free. I'm sure they have plenty of stresses that are as alien to me as their fashion sense and social standards.

Reality free.

But, then, they shape their own reality. They are born into a lifestyle, or they force themselves, work hard for that lifestyle, and then they design who they want to be, determine their priorities.

I take my hair from the natural ash-blonde to a chocolatey black with red highlights.
My eyes have been bleached from hours in the sun, leaving them sky blue with gold rings.
I try not to tan, leave my skin as pale as possible, though not due to any goth or emo leanings.

I got home at three in the morning.

The freeway curves welcomed me as I slid over them. Sobriety suits me, has for years.

I took a shortcut, blasting through various residential neighborhoods well over the speed limit. A previous lifetime leaves these routes marked in my head, knowing which will get me home with the least chance of cops and the least appearance of traffic signals. I find no red lights to slow my drive.

Windows rolled down, hair pulled back, a song put on repeat, heater blowing on my feet. I could drive this blind, but the memories triggered by this path are valuable, remind me of someone I used to be. This corner, that coffee shop, this fence, this hill, that bench. I was there, years ago, and I give a mental half-hearted salute as I fly by. Thanks for the good times, thanks for showing me the way I could have been.

This is my world.

I get behind the wheel and guide my car through the twisted roads through hills. I pick my routes based on curves and lack of slowing impediments. I would rather be here, in this moment, consuming the miles of endless road, than with the people of Sunset Boulevard.

There is no connect, no common ground other than humanity.

I am my own.

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