Feeling mopey, overworked, and underappreciated by the adolescents at school, I go downtown Denver, looking for some equalibrium - or at least a pair new jeans.
I find neither on the park bench, but lay down and turn on my ipod.
Restless and annoyed with myself, I walk to a coffee shop off the beaten path. I sit down to a hard-boiled egg and rye toast. I try to write, but it is whiny and solipsistic.
A guy stand up near me and starts reading aloud from tattered mess of papers. I look around nervously, waiting for someone to "shh" him. Instead, everyone turns their chair and a barista cuts the background music, sounds I didn't notice were there until they were gone.
I find myself in the middle of a poetry reading.
His poem is about a girl named Shelby and their trip to Coney Island. Shelby, I later find out, is sitting right behind me, which explains her nervous laughter when he reads the more personal parts.
He describes the carnival, the weed they smoked, and the way Shelby danced on the beach like a little girl.
I walk out after another hour, feeling refreshed and reconnected with the inner sprits of the universe (no, I did not have any weed).
Finding oneself is overrated. And I already have too many pairs of jeans.
