Yesterday mum took me to see Blondie. I don't really enjoy gigs but she had a spare ticket and it seemed a shame to waste it. In the car I listened to Serart on my walkman (I just couldn't handle the radio). It was almost like a dream. We were driving down that dark road between Earl Shilton and Leicester Froest West (is it West?) and the trees were making these strange silhouettes on the navy starless sky. I watched the moon and it occured to me that it was running away from us. We followed it down to Leicester Forest East (I totally missed Leicester Lane) and a bus pulled out in front of us. All of the streetlights and carlights and moonlight were shining onto the windscreen into a point I couldn't see. That's when I heard Serart for the first time. Sure I'd listened to it before but at that moment I heard everything, every drum beat, everything. It was a huge mess of noises that seemed to have entangled themselves into eachother and somehow, through total dumb luck, had formed this beautiful music. It made me smile to know that the people who made that music were in the world. That people other than me have heard that sound and felt the same. That, although I'm so lonely right now, there is someone in the world feeling the same things as me. That someone, somewhere has everything, yet nothing at all. Somewhere, someone's heart beats in time with my own. No matter how lonely I am, there's someone who dreams of meeting someone like me. Somewhere, someone's heart aches for a little peace just like mine. I felt like Winston Smith ("1984"), I had finally been cured. My solitude was no longer in vain. I no longer needed to fear the ridicule of seeking solitude or for dreaming of one day not having to worry, just being content. Someone, somewhere feels the same as me. Somewhere, someone is waiting to fill the little space next to me, to share my thoughts and feeings and colour them with their own. Someone's waiting to take my heart and look after it. But I felt like Winstion Smith. And when he was cured, his destiny was death. I stopped looking at the lights on the windscreen. My eyes were closed and my hands felt my pockets. There was no pill and no blade to relieve me. I cried. My time had come but I had no means of escape. I thought again to the person waiting for me. I can't wait for someone else's salvation. I must bring my own, I alone am responsible for myself. But I am a being obsessed with slef-destruction. My eyes open, my Dad, my Mum, my Aunt and Theresa laugh at a joke I did not hear. We enter the city and Dad leaves us outside DeMontfort Hall. We walk in. Eventually we find Karla and Motty and Theresa's sister Christina joins us. I stand in silence. There's a woman who looks like Freddie Mercury and another who's head is too big for her miniscule body. Everyone is talking. I'm overwhelmed by the talking, hundreds of voices shouting at once, fighting to be heard above the others. Blondie begins to sing. I like her. She dances like nobody is watching her and she looks at the audience expectantly. I'm not sure what she expects though. Silent tears come again as I long for pills. I look at the people. Lots of women without bras. I think I might be the only one with a bra and I smile at my unintended individuality. I stare at the lights on the stage (I seem to like lights right now). They dance on and off to the beat of the music. Every now and then a blinding light shines on the audience. This is irritating. My aunt's sister is here now. She's drunk. She's always drunk. She owns a bar. She tries to convince me she doesn't get drunk very often then she dances. She also dances like a drunk. She nearly falls over half a dozen people. I like her. She laughs a lot and is clearly enjoying herself. Her husband, however, seems to have adopted this look about him of a father indulging a child as he allows her back to the bar for another drink. I look up to the ceiling and remember that this is where I saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I wonder how I'd be acting if Serj Tankian were up on stage. I realise that although I'm a huge fan, I'm not an obsessed one. Although he makes me smile (all over) listening to his voice and hearing his words it's just not my nature to be at the front. I would still stand back and let others soak up his sunshine. I'm also not the kind of person who ever attempts to meet a band or a person, no matter how much I dream it. I just know that I would stand before them competely dumbstruck, mouth flapping loosely open and shut. I don't wish to leave them with this memory of some drooling loony who can't even string together a coherent sentence. My thoughts turn back to pills. I wonder if I go into the toilets would there be any there. I knew if I waited until I got home it would be too late. A long sigh escapes my chest and I hug my jacket. For some reason I pretend my jacket is a child asleep in my arms. It comforted me until we went home. Tonight I was ill in the car on the way to piano. My hands shook relentlessly as I tried to play. This resulted in a lot of panicky comments and side-glances from Mrs. Wilkinson. When I got home I sat in my room and stared at the star-shaped fairy lights I installed above my bed. I sincerely believe much of my human interaction I could happily live without. Empathy and imagination can take you everywhere and all you need for that is thought. wanna go back?