I've never been in the city during the 4th of July. The bizarre tradition of an entire city [strike that] country shooting off exploding colors. echoing off buildings like gun shots.
My fourths in the past few years have been very memorable. Mostly because of the people i've been with. Boston with my new family of 18, Texas with my two favorite boys from said family, home like old times with my actual family...and tonight, with my mostly new...(about 9 months old) city friends...standing on their rooftop in The Trendy But Still Cute neighborhood watching every neighborhood's fireworks and a view of the skyline. Three hundred and sixty degrees. It was surreal and wonderful.
Standing on the roof, looking at the whole city exploding...I couldn't help but still feel very alone. I tend to feel particularly isolated in large crowds...which is maybe why I don't like being in them. I'm not sure what this week (or three) of little black rain cloud is at the moment. I'm putting on a good face...doing my funny voices...making jokes and laughing and being more social than I've been in years...but doing a slow three hundered and sixty degree turn on the roof, surround by all those people, the world slowed down and I was catapulted back through past years of smiles and laughing and the same crick in my neck that I get from staring up at the sky exploding. There's something wonderful and sad about tradition. I don't think I'll attempt to philosophize on it at the moment.
I felt like I was floating. Like I was watching. I'm always watching. All the people...
It was a lovely night. I'll remember it forever. I'll remember a lot of things forever.
I would've loved to be in someone's arms on the roof. Not even in a romantic way really...just...someone to keep me from leaving...to stay in the moment...something tactile to hold onto. There were plenty of people who probably would've, had I asked.
That's the problem though, isn't it.
What happens when you're scared to ask.