I don't remember throwing the guitar as an isolated event. I remember a blur.

So I threw a guitar at the drums last night. It broke in half. And I got a speeding ticket. It was a pricey evening.

I suppose there are consequences for everything we do, a reaction for every action. I know why I was speeding; I'm not really too sure why I threw the guitar. I feel like the two are unrelated incidents. One a strange dreamlike memory filled with lights and sound. The other, a calculated risk of numbers.

I don't think of myself as an angry person. I don't like yelling at people or being yelled at. I can be a bit argumentative sometimes, but I don't go out looking for a fight. Perhaps I have the occupation of exorcising those demons every night. Screaming about my fears and hope and pain and dreams. Leading an audience through the back of my mind, the words that would otherwise never be said.

I don't remember throwing the guitar as an isolated event. I remember a blur. Motion. Emotion. And then out into the night. Awake. Throbbing. Alive. My back up against the solid brick in the alleyway. The cool october air against my skin.

My goal every night is to climb inside of these songs and roll around for the evenings. They are my transportation, taking me to worlds that rarely see the light of conversation: love, hate, grace, God, sex, fear, politics...

I'm a horrible actor. I simply can't fake it. Maybe that's what make's me a good musician. My only chance is to lose myself within these songs. It's a form of worship I suppose...

My wife put it really well: you can fix a guitar but you can't take words back.

Honestly? I thoroughly enjoyed myself... And, with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, I was just doing my job.

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