the morning after.

She woke up with a heavy heart and empty thoughts. He laid there trying to go through the stages of being conscious. Mya slowly got out of the bed, knowing he wasn’t fully asleep, but not wanting he’s attention. In the mirror, her hair was gathered at the top of her head, mascara stained under her eyes, clothes wrinkled, and alcohol still remaining on her breathe.  She took down her hair, wiped the mascara, found he’s scope and thought fuck the clothes.

When she walked back into the same clutter bedroom, he laid up.

“Good morning” he spoke low.

“Good afternoon” she spoke clear.

She collected her purse, money, and coat.

He said he’ll call. She left for the next train knowing that he won’t.. well at least not for a reason for her to pick up the phone.

People could share their bodies. They can exchange passion through their lips. If words are not spoken somehow feelings are not attached.

"I really fucked up", Erin thought.
Unconscious to everyone around, she compared last week from this week.
She went through everything said, done, and felt.
He's looking through me. The same look everyone throughout the day gives a person they speak to. Physically, connecting with eye contact, but interest and thoughts far beyond us.
"I'll see you next week", he said flatly as a doctor would tell a patient.
"No you won't. I will be avoiding you at all cost", Erin's thoughts answered.
"Okay, see you then", she tried to weakly smile.
Almost running into the door, trying to escape the awkwardness of knowing there has been a changed mind.
"Damn, hope he didn't see that...to add to my ungraceful actions today"
"All my flaws were exposed on my face for him to read today. Inches from me, I couldn't hide them with makeup, smiles, hair, clothes, and salty jokes. He seen the truth of me, and declined he's offer of affection"

I stood by the second bench closest to the left of the inbound station. A man walked in the outbound across from where I was standing. He glanced over quickly. Quick enough for me to second guess if he ever really looked at me. I had to time my glances at him so that I wouldn’t get caught.
I couldn’t tell if he was 23, 24, 26 or 30. He’s skin was a smooth light cocoa. Tried to stop the slight jealousy of he’s gorgeous complexion.
The roar and the unsteady screeching of the train became loud, close. He stood. I walked forward. I wondered what he was listening to. If I would like what he was listening to or if it would make me not want to speak to him.
The train stopped between us. It blocked my view of the man. About a minute and a half of waiting, the driver’s shift must almost be over. Train left me standing there. Wonder why we were on different sides. Would we ever be on the same side? Would our plans introduce us one day?

Memory of a Performance.

“…and that was AMAZING!” the d.j. seemed as if he forgot why he was there. What record could he possible play after something so incomparable? After the lighting, the engineer, the dj, and the crowd came back from the tantalizing high that only the most raw and original composition could give a room of 650 people, the dj finally put on the “The What” and went to the side of the stage.

I stood motionless still overwhelmed by the performance and the artist. I haven’t felt this feeling in a long time…way too long for someone who is always around a venue.

I just had a conversation with this man who secretly and humbly contained a perfect talent. He’s voice; the tonality, melodic but conversational. He’s words detailed accounts from our experiences, each carefully chosen word punctured everyone’s mind and will hold a personal memory for everyone that was in the room.

After taking everyone on this experience, the unrecognizable face walks away. He left the venue without a second look back on the faces that gave him their full attention.  As if he wanted our last moment to only be of he’s talent not an image. An image of a what could be any man in the crowd, no jewelry, no overpriced t-shirt and jeans, no customized sneakers or an image to uphold. A plain, average, young black man that wore a white clean shirt, nameless jeans and regular Nikes, that left everyone to only remember he’s voice, the sway of he’s body with every texture of he's words, and the music.

We, I wanted more of this artist. 

Artists are Experts.

No matter how
soft.
genetic.
this may come across...
everyone has a gift therefore everyone is talented.
the difference between those who have success and those who are empty is that few people work hard... relentlessly hard and another factor which is not true for most is becoming experts in your craft of the talent you possess.
Almost everyone knows of a local who tries to emulate a popular "artists" such as lil wayne or drake. Whether it be style or musically. Popular music is missing experts. People who KNOW music instruments.beats.lyrics.melody.tonality.emotion.originality.the process.
The majority of music now more than ever is a bought and sold product. A refined product that came from many bought sources.
Lyrics $10,000(from anonymous)...Beat $1,000(from some college dude)
The consumer no longer knows who's work they bought or where their $15 went after they bought that cd.
When you know your craft so well you become an expert at it, it becomes hard to be bought and sold and then soon after not cool anymore.
Legends. Icons. Good Artists. are not predicted.

.rap becoming less musical.

Q-Tip's Top 5 Rappers Who Sing from The Urban Daily on Vimeo.

He Performs

He swiftly walked off before she could formulate a response. She turned her back to the front of the stage and tried to understand this obscured encounter. Just as she let her thoughts stray, a loud greeting from the crowd interrupted. She turned to see the stranger, the young man quickly walked with the same calm presence up the side stairs to the stage. Once again he had no introduction. Thinking out loud, “who the hell is he?” He grabbed the mic from the table on the stage, observed the crowd as if he could see through the sweaty faces into each of their souls. The crowd waited for some kind of direction to respond to this nameless face. Just before losing their attention, the instrumental music started to play. She became one of them, one of the 653 people who wanted to hear this stranger’s voice, to hear the vibration of he’s words, to build a connection so they could feel as though they knew him. “one-two, one-two, one-two”, like this was he’s sound check. Then he dropped the first verse with which he would own everyone’s attention. A voice that was relatable-no accent, no dialect, everyone could feel it was theirs, a tone that wasn’t comparable. In trance, he owned her as well. One song and he walked off as if he didn’t have full control over everyone in the room. Stared by all, he walked out of the building. The house d.j. just as confused and enameled by this man, his music, the performance, the person, tried to act as if this was planned “and that was …”

No Hello Stranger

Lost in thought, mostly daily worry as the club played the theme music for her daydreams. She structured herself to always look confident and strong standing alone. The young woman had years of practice learning to keep her imagination as good company. Quietly, a tall well-dressed man approached with a grace only a man who had experienced great achievement through hardship could. He carried undeniable strength with he’s broad shoulders, a face that couldn’t display ignorance, and hands that only the hard-working have. The young man’s presence immediately made her self-conscious. The shadow hiding details of he’s face and only showing the outline of he’s beautiful dark complexion as one arm rested on the bar. A glance from these deep eyes boldly exposed all of her insecurities. He turned to speak with full attentive eye contact, “What are you doing here tonight?” She tried to disguise the nervousness in her voice, “I work here.” A slight smile from him, “Is this your dream?” An uncertain and confused reply, “I’m sorry”. He’s response already prepared, “I don’t think this is your dream career, looks like your plotting your next move.” A low sigh of a laugh, “I want to work in the music business, maybe an entertainment lawyer.” Her answer made he’s smile widen as her thoughts raced, she couldn’t read him. Never losing eye contact, he told her he had to go. I’ll see you soon; I have to know your goals, feel your dreams, and taste your talent.