Status: Work In Progress
I Have Never Seen Myself, Only My Reflection
Prologue
The lights shine bright in my eyes as I continue on living the dream - singing through my throat and lungs to the point of mortal exhaustion. My thoughts cannot help but drift off. I know others would find it hard to understand, but I sometimes find myself wondering whether or not this is it for me. Have I found my true calling? Is this as good as my life will get?
Most people, I know, would gawk at my questioning this fantastic life; it's not like everyone gets the chance to peruse something, that really makes them happy, as a career. But I catch myself feeling empty inside - sometimes after shows, while other times the hollowness appears simply when I'm alone.
When touring with the band, the bustling and rushing from one state to the next is usually enough to occupy my mind for the time being; and yet, those quiet moments still catch me. They haunt me like a murder victim seeking revenge on their killer. Saddening thoughts cloud my mind. Those same clouds are blown in front of my eyes, for they too seem to be glazed over with a blinding sensation of emptiness, and uselessness. I truly do not know how to fully and accurately articulate my emotions into combined syllables, but I will try my best.
As an introduction to this ungodly long story, I will entighten you with the simplest possible facts conserning myself. I am a twenty-two year old man who sings in a band with the best people one could ever hope to meet. As for my possessions: a stray dog who was closer to death when I found him than Julius ceasar after being stabbed 20 times on the church floor, a broken family, and a cavernous soul. What can I do but question myself, my existence, and my purpose?
The show ends, and as I descend the stairs leading to the "Chill Room," as it was so formally introduced as by the owner of the club, someone catches me by the shoulder.
"Wanna drink man?"
"Do I ever?" The rhythem guitarist of our band interjects wearily as he passes, wiping the sweat from his face with one of those white towels venues usually seem to supply us with. He stayed up all last night drinking with our friends, but I don't say anything about it, even though I know that's the reason behind his tiredness. It's what young people are supposed to do, right - drink until they can't see straight?
I muster up a smile as I turn over my left shoulder toward Mike.
"Okay," I say, and he smiles in response. I haven't been out with my friends in a while; maybe it's time I push myself out of my comfort zone and just go. What's the worst that could happen?
The thing is, I could think of a number of things; I just didn't want to accept any of them as being probable or possible occurrences. I know now that I should have.
"That's great!" Mike and Jesse reply in unison - it seems as though Jesse has woken up a bit. "Race you to the van Kels!" Jesse screams over his shoulder as he runs down the hall, straight to the red sign that reads "EXIT," with grey, "push" double-doors just below it.
The doors slam shut behind him before I even make an effort to move. Mike is halfway to the exit, probably thinking he's talking to me rather than the collection of gasious particles banging around next to him.
Sighing, I begin making my way down the endless hallway. After Mike finishes holding one of the doors open for the excited atoms, the door shuts again - this time louder than the last.
The sound of the door's finality and the echo of the soles of my shoes hitting the tile are the only sounds left to be heard.
A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I finally reach the doors - the quiet was beginning to smother me again. At the same time though, my shoulders tense, and I begin to quiver with anticipation.
Here goes nothing.
Most people, I know, would gawk at my questioning this fantastic life; it's not like everyone gets the chance to peruse something, that really makes them happy, as a career. But I catch myself feeling empty inside - sometimes after shows, while other times the hollowness appears simply when I'm alone.
When touring with the band, the bustling and rushing from one state to the next is usually enough to occupy my mind for the time being; and yet, those quiet moments still catch me. They haunt me like a murder victim seeking revenge on their killer. Saddening thoughts cloud my mind. Those same clouds are blown in front of my eyes, for they too seem to be glazed over with a blinding sensation of emptiness, and uselessness. I truly do not know how to fully and accurately articulate my emotions into combined syllables, but I will try my best.
As an introduction to this ungodly long story, I will entighten you with the simplest possible facts conserning myself. I am a twenty-two year old man who sings in a band with the best people one could ever hope to meet. As for my possessions: a stray dog who was closer to death when I found him than Julius ceasar after being stabbed 20 times on the church floor, a broken family, and a cavernous soul. What can I do but question myself, my existence, and my purpose?
The show ends, and as I descend the stairs leading to the "Chill Room," as it was so formally introduced as by the owner of the club, someone catches me by the shoulder.
"Wanna drink man?"
"Do I ever?" The rhythem guitarist of our band interjects wearily as he passes, wiping the sweat from his face with one of those white towels venues usually seem to supply us with. He stayed up all last night drinking with our friends, but I don't say anything about it, even though I know that's the reason behind his tiredness. It's what young people are supposed to do, right - drink until they can't see straight?
I muster up a smile as I turn over my left shoulder toward Mike.
"Okay," I say, and he smiles in response. I haven't been out with my friends in a while; maybe it's time I push myself out of my comfort zone and just go. What's the worst that could happen?
The thing is, I could think of a number of things; I just didn't want to accept any of them as being probable or possible occurrences. I know now that I should have.
"That's great!" Mike and Jesse reply in unison - it seems as though Jesse has woken up a bit. "Race you to the van Kels!" Jesse screams over his shoulder as he runs down the hall, straight to the red sign that reads "EXIT," with grey, "push" double-doors just below it.
The doors slam shut behind him before I even make an effort to move. Mike is halfway to the exit, probably thinking he's talking to me rather than the collection of gasious particles banging around next to him.
Sighing, I begin making my way down the endless hallway. After Mike finishes holding one of the doors open for the excited atoms, the door shuts again - this time louder than the last.
The sound of the door's finality and the echo of the soles of my shoes hitting the tile are the only sounds left to be heard.
A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I finally reach the doors - the quiet was beginning to smother me again. At the same time though, my shoulders tense, and I begin to quiver with anticipation.
Here goes nothing.
♠ ♠ ♠
Well, hello first of all. what can I say? This is the first fanfiction I've written in years, and I would REALLY appreciate feedback. I'm truly excited to write this story and I will attempt to update as often as possible. I hope you enjoyed the prologue. and don't worry, shit hasn't even begun. x) Comments, subscriptions, and recommendations are welcome with open arms!!!