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Some inhuman virus halting the dream. The unconscious, melodic link. "The Show."
Mountain cold penetrating, chilling, like the lyrics only moments ago.
The evening's dynamics compacted into the revelry of the triumphant departure,
upended gentle music transformed into awkward fumbling.
From the honorable to the ashamed in one closing of a door.
The illusion of confidence isn't within but out there.
Its only on loan from others...
...but Springsteen, with a single note, can return what paranoia had just stolen.
The thoughts of what might have been trying to intrude, but vanquished at the grumble of a starter.
Soon ideals of meditation induced-bliss challenged,
the here-and-now of pushing through curves trumping vague philosophical maybes.
Buddha is my co-pilot.
At home, the 'net gently weeps.