This is dedicated to anyone, and I’m sure there are many, who have sat in the parking lot in the mall where they work their shitty retail job singing “Louder Than Words” by Jonathan Larson, eyes closed, pretending they do not see the cold, soulless monolithic shrine to consumerism before them.
To anyone who sits alone listening to thunder and pretending their dog actually gives a crap about listening with them.
To those who rely on books to keep them company.
To those who vow to make magic real in the world.
To those who see and feel power in the places where others perceive none.
To those who, while being perfectionists, still seem to color outside the lines only to get burned by the line-Nazis, those who love order and would not stray even for the sake of learning new things.
To those who judge the watchers of the Jersey Shore while secretly watching the Glee Project.
This is dedicated to those who sing in the shower even when they know they are bad at it.
To those who believe they shouldn’t be stopped from singing, even though they are bad at it.
To those who feel like they cannot write unless they have something profound to say, but miss the important things in those around them. The whir of the fan, the rain on the protruding air conditioner, the cat’s bell.
In short, to those who feel like their lives are not profound.
This is not a hopeless passage, though I had originally intended to write it that way. I originally intended to be emotional, to write about the void and the migraine, to say that we are lost even as we are together. But fuck that. We are important. I’m sure of it.