Feeling Sorry

"Sticks and stones may break freaking bones, but words straight out, hurt." The pure gruffness in my voice surprises me, but not a single muscle moves to show it.

The words themselves were genuine, though I'd be lying if I were to say they held emotion. Of that there was an intense draining, and the whereabouts of the riffed energy is unknown as of yet.

The pair of worn out sticks laying dormant on the nightstand met the flesh of my hands, cold to the touch. Wooden floor being a much more agreeable drum set than the one ten feet I'm too lazy to walk towards.

I warm up with rudiments, the way I always do, and my mind wanders. Its runs off into regrets, sorrows, and memories, just remembering a bit of each, and just some of the good stuff that made it all worthwhile. The kind of stuff coming as a distraction that leaves as a burden. That much, that its worth it. Though those thoughts lead back to the negative I seep away from.  As I accidentally play a paradiddle-diddle, ruining the flow of organized turn taking routine I wish I'm not the only one who follows, my mind slowly ventures back.

Screw warming up, I'm young. There's no way I'll get injured. There's no way I'll slow down. So I stand, and hobble over with less than joyful steps over to my perfect set that I love. A frickin strong word. A single hit to the bass, starting off my simple four count rhythm, and I'm lost in the sound of erotic hits on perfectly tuned drum-heads.

Either I'm too caught up in the music, or its that loud that I can't think over, but either way I forget of everything for a moment. Just a few minutes of clashes on the cymbals I let on un-silenced, double hits on the typical snare, fastened pedals to the bass that keeps my tempo, and other random, crazed movements to the poor set is all I need to lose track of those precious minutes. They fade and turn into hours, sweat dripping down my forehead as my arms and legs go numb. Slow and steady the way I'm used to.

I give a last clash onto the hi-hat and I'm wasted. A smile somehow has crept its way onto my face, and I can't help the wave of satisfaction that washes over my tired frame. And then, of course, there's hunger, and the urge to take a piss. I listen to my stomach because, truth be told I haven't eaten properly in the past few weeks. If its been that long.

Then I'm smacked in the face with the reality that in those past few weeks, I haven't even left my apartment. There could've been some type of catastrophic apocalyptic rampage, and I wouldn't know because I've been here drumming in this tattered little place I call an escape. Although I doubt the ending of the world, simply because I'm not special enough to have lived, I am absolutely certain that whatever remains of food in my fridge is either rotten or nonexistent.

As much of a bother it is, my eyes meet sunlight, and I can't even begin to explain the adaptation they're forced to endure. Who knew the bright side could be so painful. Being the civil person I am, I empty out the stuffed looking mailbox that overflowed, and walked on.

I don't even know if its irony or sarcasm getting to me, but I can't think straight. And as I cross the solemn streets in this awesomely cold winter evening, shoving the mail into my book bag alongside my sticks, I burst into laughter. Now I don't know if its sarcastic or sadistic, but I keep laughing like a loon.

I like the term ignorance is bliss. Whether the people staring at me are ignorant or I am, I couldn't care less. I hear a few cameras snap and I wonder just who could've possibly taken it? Scratch that, who remembers me? Blake. Mercer. Good old Harnage. I'm pretty sure enough  time has passed that people have forgotten who I am, who Tilted Reality was. Then again I don't know how much time has passed.

All of this, I've stopped to contemplate in the coffee isle of this local supermarket whose name I never remember. There's tea, sure, and other morning beverages I won't bother to look at, but coffee hits home. Sheused to drink coffee. Heck would I known if she still does, which she probably, of course, still does. I haven't heard of her since the touring in London. Where I woke up in a hospital bed, my band disqualified because of the absence of its drummer.