punk rock.

I like punk rock because it relieves me of my burdensome mind, my tendency to over-think and analyze and because, with punk rock, I find myself impulsive and savage. I like punk rock for the same reasons I like the drugs, and pain, and sex. But I guess that makes sense.

I can’t really describe what it’s like, being at a show; what’s it’s like to be moshing, my body bruising against sweat-coated limbs and chests, my vision blurred, the stink of beer and rum and pot, on my breath and my friends’ and the crowd’s. There, I am animal and instinctual and able to express my love and fury and passion in howling songs and fists-kicks. I am alive.

I’m not able to do this in real life.

My convictions remain but I have the new-found ability to rage over them, to believe that they might actually mean something.

For a night, I’m wild, brash in my actions, and a leader. I get my friends into trouble and they forgive me because I get them out of it, too. I feel like I am suited to the small, dark room. The brusque crowd. I’m not- not really, because I’ve never been brusque or confident and have only been reckless and half-mad with my own brand of intellectuality. Even there, I’m not quite right; far too reliant on my solitude and logic. But no one questions me and I am only a blurred impact, part of the crowd.

My ribs crack and I can’t hear my own voice over the band.

I guess, for me, that’s freedom.