I sat on the floor of my little box of a childhood bedroom writing stories and listening to the same Kenny Chesney album on repeat for a month of July Sundays. Sticky-hot. Noise outside. Slamming doors. Ink-peppered fingers.
I knew every word to every single song. Each one told its own story. They played out in my head while I made up my tales.
A couple of years later, I got to go to the concert. Big deal? HUGE deal.
Speakers the size of buildings thumping. Giant air-filled balls bouncing in the air, off fingertips and heads. Flashing lights. Thousands of people, swaying, screaming, singing every word.
My ears were ringing the next day. I felt the speaker vibrations in my toes and fingers. Cigarette smoke. Parking lot bootleg souvenir T-shirt. Too overwhelmingly life-altering to describe.
I hate concerts. Too many people in too-close proximity. A headache. Too expensive. Parking lot traffic jam. Drunk people. Next day hoarse voice. You have to drive way too far to get to the venue…
But the memory, what it was like, going from sitting in my little bedroom all alone with that CD to being at the amphitheater packed full with blissfully excited, alike-in-at-least-one-way people. Hearing all my favorite songs, live and in-person. Every single lyric amplified. Was awesome. Is forever.Loading Likes...