That last year I watched the sun set while you sang songs backed by a beautiful orchestra; that every time I hear "The Story" I get teary eyed; that I feel at home no matter where I am when I listen to your music; that once, I put "Someday Never Comes" on a mix for a friend and it said exactly what I wanted to, but couldn't; that seeing you in concert makes me think about my mother so much, it is both unbearable and wonderful all at once—
But that would have been crazy, so instead, when I met Brandi Carlile, my face turned beet red as she shook my hand and I heard myself say:
"I'm such a huge fan."
Then Ray LaMontagne took the stage, and aside from some mumbled "thank you's" in between songs, he spoke to the crowd only once, to tell us to "turn around and look at the moon" because it really was "quite lovely"—and it was. And as the big yellow moon rose up behind us, he sang this song:
In that moment, everything felt okay, and I no longer cared that I couldn't say all the things I wanted to say to Brandi, or that I can never seem to say everything I want to say when it counts the most, because the music said it all.
It's Day 7 in The Writing Experiment, and after driving back to Chicago in the rain, then sitting in rush hour traffic for two hours, all I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and pass out. But because I'm experimenting with this little thing called discipline, instead, I went to the gym. And then I wrote this. Now I curl up in a ball and pass out.