I remember staring at the ceiling in your apartment, laying on your hardwood floor – alone – listening to Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, loudly. So loud, I could feel the vibration of the music through the floor. And you had told me earlier that week that you liked to play music loud, that it was the only way to listen to it. And so I listened.
You had invited me out, but I declined. You wanted to introduce me to your friends, but in the moment of the invitation, I suddenly felt emotionally strange and perhaps grief-stricken. And maybe I also just felt awkward. And didn’t want to meet your friends, preferring to be alone. I tend to find myself in corners, having a habit of blurring the lines of my life, becoming this indefinable individual; bearing a title that’s not quite accurate, not quite encompassing all of me. It was a lot to explain. I didn’t know who to be for you.
And that summer I felt very strongly attached to you, and with good reason. It was difficult to define, to explain. But I was a newcomer in a different place, I was your guest. I was along for the ride. So keeping my mouth shut, I basked in whatever flowed around me. And there was a lot. And it truly was wonderful.
I left a paper on your coffee table that I wished I had brought home with me. Maybe your scribbles could have brought comfort on a dark, uncertain evenings when you would go radio silent, or when I would doubt my life.
You made me want to believe in the future. You made me believe in myself. You gave me joy and importance and made me feel like I mattered. And it changed my life. You changed my life.
So when you opened the door to find me on the floor of your apartment, listening to Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, I continued to lay there and perhaps glanced up, the spell still partially intact. I trusted you. I explained my sadness. You understood.