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love in a pile of dust

Today i went to a poetry reading for my first time. It was beautiful, how an art form can bring so many people together like that. people that I would not assume like that were there, so many generations and lifestyles and characteristics, all there for the beauty of literature and life. A sobering account, a learning experience. The friendly passing of a joint around the little circle, you have some or you don't, it's all the same. Three generations smoing up together, no judgment, no feelings of stupidity or guilt. Just being happy and loving life. The older crowd is more refined, it seems to me. They understood us and appreciated us but to listen to their stories, their experiences, was a welcomed experience. A whole new scene, new people, new convorsations. I was happy there. Reminiscant of my childhood when I would sit and listen absent-mindedly to my parents and their friends. Now I know I should have listened, instead of just wanting to leave all the time. The things they have to say, the wisdom that comes forth and I don't even realize it, and maybe they don't either. Maybe I should start hanging out with an older crowd. I think they could tell me things I could really appreciate and value. I'm getting tired of these barely-18s, so caught up in attaining some perishable high, like it's all that matters. I thirsted for substance, for something different to open my eyes. And now I have it. I've always loved the arts. But I never had enough self esteem to want to further my repetoire, to share and be critiqued. This was good for me. I don't have a clue who I am but I know this is something I like. woot.

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