Comedown.

Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is the middle of a crowded dance floor.

I had what I guess you could call a panic attack tonight. At Underground.

I had thought about going by and visiting the former Go Go Box whore's poker night, but upon talking with Dave and Drew, decided that we would hit up UG early so that we could hear Annie's set as a DJ tonight. And for a second time out, she did a great job. Got me to sway myself a bit, and even better, sing along.

But even that was a bit hollow for me. She gave me "shite" about my makeout session last week. Go figure. And even though she didn't really harp on it, I know that my chances with Julie are a bit blown. My own fault really. Impatience and impetuousness...

Tonight, you see, I was planning to have just two drinks, and then dance, dance dance. Instead (and of no true, whole fault of my own) I ended up drunk, and not really dancing. Mainly me on the patio, Vanilla Stoli and Coke in hand, and chatting. Flirting, chatting, and trying to figure myself out. A lot of "Damn, Anthony, when it rains, it pours" discussion.

Spoke with Edgar for a while, and he paid me the largest compliment about my writing that I have gotten in a long, long while. And it both at once made my heart swell, and break--swell, in that he gave me a beautiful compliment; ache in that what he found beauty in is the darker side of me. The pained side. And that he connected with that--knowing that I only have hurt--empathy of hurt--to offer, pained me a bit. But so is my life.

After being rather buzzed out, due to Johnny (the bartender) being over zealously generous, and Reina's donation of her STRONG drink to me, I was...floating a bit.

Floated my way to annoy the crap out of Dia in the DJ booth; floated my way through a pair of awkward, and flirty conversations; floated my way to the dancefloor. Where I promptly freaked out.

Normally, I dance with my eyes closed. Often, I do, if not normally. I do so to block out the world and feel the music, an the booze as they both move and guide my limbs. Closing my eyes allows me a freedom that is otherwise unkown on the floor. I can just sit and study and feel (to some degree) the world around me without being subject to its social conventions. I can entangle with a web, or a style, or a pair of pants strategically placed on some hot chica.

Needless to say, I dance better without the distractions. I can feel the music. Enjoy tyhe music.

But I failed.

I found myself on the floor, suddenly lonely--alone--short of breath and surrounded by beauty, all far too overwhelming. I pushed through the crowd, gasping for air, panicking, on the near constant verge of tears, when I found a pocket to push my head through, and breathe.

I don't think that most people would understand or appreciate the experience of an in-club freak out. You watch people, gyrating, surrounded by beatiful women (or men) everywhere, and all seemingly 'with' someone, or in charge of something, or planning, or making a move, or just, in general, out of reach. And you open your eyes, and you are filled with them. You are among them, and you smell like booze, and a tiny bit of despairation--even if you loath the feeling, and have done all you can do to keep from despair.

And then it hits, like a monkey sitting on your chest, wild and bouncing. Get out, get out, get out, breathe!!!

When people dance, they almost never seem to look at one another. Always up, or down, or at someone else. Never at the someone they are dancing with. There is a strong disassociation there, and one that is only countered when the trendy meet the trendy, and they spark up, or so it seems.

It's funny, really; when you think of the diverseness, the wide, wildness of the clubscene, and it's all just the same. And it gets so frustrating that it can bring tears to a veteran club-swinger's eyes.

And it did mine.

I think most of it...much of it, has to do with tiredness. My own self imposed sleep deprivation campaign. And combined with being tired of the same old shit of bullshite artists, stuck up persons, and the totally guarded female masses, it overwhelms.

And I became overwhelmed. I hadn't in a while--been overwhelmed. And never so bad.

I danced, and opened my eyes. First mistake. I glanced around, and saw the DJ's working the floor; some kids working the stage; some couples working towards making each other; some folks working on their bottles of booze; friends gyrating. And then me.

I got lost in the middle of all the people, and had no where to turn, and no one to turn to. In that moment, I just wanted arms around me holding me, and understanding, as only one who gets me can.

I'm babbling. I have not nearly enough of the words to give to explain. So, instead, I offer this:

Tears on the dancefloor
are not nearly enough
to take away the pride
of self searching for the pain
that is much worse than knowing a bad time is nigh;
there is nothing more palpable
than a shared smile over a cocktail
which means nothing for either, near or far,
just full of fear
apprehension,
and stupidity.

Okay, I'm going to sleep now. Sleep off the booze, and figure out what I have to do to keep my sanity. Or find the words to describe the inside of me.

And believe me when I say that inner description is a bitch. Especially when paired with loud music, booze, and a really meloncholy view of the world.

I should sleep now, but my heart's not in it.

Hisssss! Sunlight!!!!!!

Good God, when did morning get here?

I am not allowed to have drinks passed to me by Reina any more. No. I don't care if it's free, full, and strong. Never again. Gah, trash in mouth.

It's funny how much perspective changes when you've gotten a chance to sleep some. A chance to dream, and recharge, and then *poof* it's another beautiful, brand new day. Even if you did watch it come up over the horizon.

Going back and reading stuff is weird. Especially since you know that you were cold stock drunk off yer arse when you wrote it. How the hell did Hemingway work like this? How did Bukowski pen such beautiful poetry? How did Tennessee Williams keep his plots together while so stumbly? Why were they all so mean, drunk and depressed?

I don't know. But they couldn't have lived like that all the time. Couldn't. They would have keeled over long before they did. Hemingway would have shot himself long before he did.

What I do know is that living life like this is taking its toll on me--yeah, sure physically, though you can't really see where most of the damage is (oh, dear liver); the most important damage is what this kinda life is doing to my soul, to the heart of the man. It's starting to tear me up inside in ways that I just can't explain, and *that* worries me. Especially since this is something that I *enjoy* doing. Go figure.

I guess when I get to dance, and share smiles--connect--I'm in my league. I get to experience people, and not just cold, empty glares. The scene is starting to wear on me again, and it may be time for another break.

I miss bars.

We used to go to bars and sit and talk and flirt and drink, and THAT was a scene. People connecting with people. At a bar, you can just be, and other people just are too. Together. Even if you're at one end of the rail, and they're at the other. It must be the reason why I end up on the patio all the time--save that on the patio, there are often those judgemental, stares feeling you out (of which, admittedly, I am guilty of, too).

It's the coffeehouse effect, I guess. Nothing to do but converse, and let your words be your mastery. But at a bar, there is something that is missing from coffee talk. Something deeper, and more personal, and strangely intimate.

I think it's the alcohol.

At a bar, your guard is down. You let it down. You relax some, you let go some, and if you're careful, you interweave in and out with others.

I dunno, it's all too much to think about right now. I have better things to do than dig into my own psyche. I have plans to grind, people to meet, and miles to go before I eat.

I am rich in emotion, and maybe this is a good thing, but sometimes it's just a pain in the ass. ENTJ farkness.

Farkness. What a weird ass made up word.