For the past few weeks I’ve been having a very particular itch that won’t be scratched for a long time due to incredible staying power of covid 19 virus. I fully acknowledge the seriousness of the virus. I am both horrified and saddened when witnessing the devastation that it leaves behind. I also know that my continuously increasing desire to scratch it might very well scream privilege, or spoiled brat, or scream entitled prick, or worse, or all of those combined. Yet, the itch remains like a stubborn fucker that it is.
What’s my itch? I fucking miss going to a show. Rock show. A week long festival. I miss rolling in mud. I miss screaming till my voice abandons me and my lungs are about to commit treason by completely betraying me.. I miss sleeping in tents. I miss waking up among the people that at least temporarily are my kindred spirits. My brothers and sisters that are connected through live music.
Psychosocial. Spit it out.
Of course I realize that my itch is in many ways ridiculous. Immature even. I mean there are people dying from this virus. There are people whose reality is forever altered. There are people who struggle to make ends meet due to this horrible pandemic. Still, despite knowing all that my itch is not withering away. Fuck, the fucker grows every fucking day.
Before I forget. Unsainted.
Ugh. I hate that I posses so little of humanity within me that I can’t fight off this itch. I hate that it’s driven by my selfishness.
The Devil in I.
In this moment though I recognize that this is what I am. Missing. Fucking. Rock. Shows. Ridiculous, right?
People = Shit.
And so am I. Still, I can’t wait for the day I am back to one of these again!