There is something beautifully wistful about playing to a crowd of people who make you feel so connected, so important, so invincible only to walk offstage to a dressing room where you sit alone, basking in the moment that has just passed by yourself to yourself.

This is it, this is everything I want, this is amazing, this is lonely.

He immediately shuts off that last notion. Lonely? You just played to a crowd of 500 people.

These moments are not irregular, the conversations between two different sides of himself without even having to say a word aloud. He jokes about living inside his mind as though it’s not something entirely plausible but that is one of his infinite truths. When he says something, his mind is working as fast as possible to keep up. When a moment occurs, his mind reworks itself surrounding the moment and latches on to the various parts of it. When he hears something, his mind processes it and goes through the negatives and positives at the same speed. When he reads something, he overanalyzes and fixates.

“How long are we here for?”
“Two nights.”

Home is heading to locations he has only ever dreamed of. Home is a bunch of guys on a tour bus laughing as they make their way to the next gig. Home is the endless strumming of a guitar, an extension of his arm, an extension of his emotions, an extension of his soul. Home is a crowd singing his lyrics back to him as he closes his eyes and soaks every minute in. Home is the relationships that revolve around distance. Home is the phone calls with old friends who sound new each time. Home is the melancholic “I’m sorry, this is my life, I understand if you don’t want to life through it. But I do.” Home is the newfound attention that causes constant nerves. Home is new adventures in new cities. Home is not tangible, home is not definite, home is constantly moving and changing.