A friend said to me the other night, after many pitchers and a celebratory Penguins win,".. at least you do stuff, that's all that matters. That you impress yourself." And I gathered my frayed wits and thought, but what if impressing yourself isn't the most important thing. What if impressing that love, whatever it is, becomes the all consuming agenda? How far would you go? When does the line that you won't cross get pushed back further and further, till you're at the edge, rocks falling beneath your feet, and you're screaming to yourself in your head, " How the fuck did I get here?" And then Beth said, " Do you pull yourself out of the flames, or do you let your shit burn?"
All I could think about was that I carry matches, and am obsessed with fireworks.
Happy Boom Boom/1812 Overture Day.
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