Meet me in the bathroom

Of porcelain and poetry.

When it comes down to it, I'm probably made up of two basic elements: music and the old comic books I used to read as a kid.

But mostly, music.

I’ll bet you’re into music too — being a reader of a blog that’s at least honest, and — okay, okay — a little emo.

You can’t be alone when you listen to music. Not just because it's nice to know someone else experiences alienation, heartbreak, and the sneaking suspicion they've been miscast in this life.

No, I’m talking about actually being in the company of the music’s creator. The Creator. You see, when I’m immersed in a song, I'm no longer bound by time or space. I’m with the artist in the very moment of creative expression. It doesn’t matter if the artist died centuries ago. Their soul is in the song. We meet in the moment.

That kind of intimacy gets me higher than anything I’ve ever smoked.

I guess you could say the same about the written word. When I’m transported by a book or a poem, I’m with its creator too.

Come to think of it, you and I are here in this pixelated place right now. I’m doing all the talking though. And, sorry, you can’t speak.

Still, here we are! And I'm grateful for that.

Anyway, why am I telling you all this?

Because I met a special soul in the bathroom stall of my favorite coffee shop the other day. There I was just minding my business, staring dumbly at the wall, as I often do, and this passage — a poem, I guess — caught my eye.

Did you get lost in the music just now too? After all, what is a poem, but a song that asks the heart to keep rhythm while the soul strums?

I don’t know the author’s name. Or when it was written. Its creator might now be a ghost. But we met there in the bathroom stall. Me and someone else’s child — feeling lost and uncertain, and alone in this world. Hope and heartbreak hung on every word. I even pressed my hand against the wall. Remember how I said you couldn’t talk back in our conversation? Well, how I wished, in that moment, that I could.

But let’s imagine, instead, the author of that passage is reading this — and here with us now. What would I say?

I remember falling asleep on the ride home too. And how my dad’s rough hand felt. Especially the back of it.

And I hope you’re smiling now when you think of tomorrow. I feel you.

But if our bathroom bard can’t be with us today, I’ll offer you the same words. And remind you, that no, we’re not alone. Not here. As long as we're together, this song will always remain the same.