Music

This place was where I belonged. It was where I was born, and where I was made to be. I stood in the back of the empty room. It was clear, crisp and brightly light. One would almost associate this with a hospital room, except the only thing missing was the scent of antiseptic and the predominant scent of sadness. Here, all you could smell was the lingering odours of body odour, smoke, booze, and excitement. As I walked across the room the old wooden floors creaked. One wouldn't be able to believe a few hundred stood here every night. The lights began to dim. The old floral wall paper changed emotion, going from sweet old lady to "what kind of drugs do you want this evening sir?"
 I looked up and closed my eyes, trying to remember how I got here. How could it be possible? I can still remember the days when I would sit in class and do what the teachers told me, play what they told me. I hated it. There was no freedom. Sometimes I found the countless scores like a jail sentence. Serving your time playing, reading, and feeling what others wrote. Yes, there is no doubt Beethoven, Bach, Handel, and Tchaikovsky weren't musical geniuses, but for me I always followed the rule of enjoy at a distance. The thing with playing someone else music is you couldn't put you into. By definition in my opinion being a musician is showing your creativity. So, how can you possibly do so playing someones else creative movement. By all means play it but, do not rely on Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata define your musical creativity.
When it is you though, playing your own score, people can tell. There is this aura that surrounds you, and people can feel it when you play for them. It was like the first time. You walk out the lights shining down on you, expecting. You stand there look at each other and start, its not until the people in front turn into animals, that you realize this is your music.
I looked down realizing it was almost time. The crew were setting up the stage, doing final mic check. I hopped up on stage and walked right past them. I walked through the narrow corriders. The scent of ciggarets became more apparent as I moved closer to the dressing rooms. I walked through the door and they were all sitting there joking around. They were my family, they were my back up, and best friends. I smiled as they passed me a beer, I took a swig then put it down. The offered my a cigarette and I refused as per usual. We would spend most nights like these. Going over sets, joking around, and drinking an hour before or so. A rodey popped his head in saying its time. We all looked at each other and smiled.
We started to get pumped up. Jumping up and down screaming, laughing, then it was time to walk down the small corrider, walk up the small set of stairs, and face the bright lights again. I walk out first being hit with the applause and screaming, a smile instantly spreading across my face. I wave walk up to the mic as the rest of my family settle into their respectful positions on stage. I reach the mic and lean in, the screams still filling the room, along with the familiar scents of smoke, booze, and exctiement. I smile and speak, "Let's get this started!"
I pick up my sax, and the same feeling of freedom fills me up. I look up and the lights draw me in.
This is my church, and I'm hear to preach music.