My pain and sorrow are sincere. I arrive in another town, another city filled with flocks of people I don’t know. The venue sits proud on a bustling street, its face clad with a salacious white marquis sporting the words Ray LaMontagne… I can’t get used to that. My head swells with thoughts of the previous shows, while hopes for my other life to appear are dashed in a heartbeat, leaving me anxious and defeated. Sputtering lights and endless questions carve into my sense of self and begin to force me to evaluate every word I speak and every sound I make. My guitar feels heavier and heavier each night and the strings fight my strum like taut bridge cables. I wonder if they hear what I’m saying, if anyone who listens actually understands the part of me that I sometimes fail to understand. One consoling deep breath and then into the line of fire, “casually” stepping out before thousands of pairs of eyes, thousands of sets of ears and thousands of hearts digesting the tales of woe that have furrowed my brow so. This light above my mic is so bright; I wish this whole venue were pitch black… They don’t need to see me to hear me. My heart aches as my box guitar screams pain and my throbbing words waft over the crowd. They hoot and holler and cry requests as I step from the imposing light following the departing note of every piece. Pleased and disappointed, I hide in the timid darkness of the stage between each song, hearing them clap for my audible outpouring of emotion. I wonder if they understand… My pain and sorrow are sincere.
Lit Hardway
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