The Trouble of a Ticket


Somewhere there's a secret road
To take me far away I know
But til than I am hollow
Jake Bugg - Trouble Town

The first and most probably last concert of the year. 
*happy face* *sad face*

Last Friday I went to see Jake Bugg at the Melkweg in Amsterdam. It was magical. It was fantastic. He was everything I wanted him to be (that's to say: he played all the songs I wanted him to play. Good boy). I highly recommend seeing him live. He's f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c. Anyway: I was very nervous to go. And when I get nervous I can get quite, well, mean (that's to say: I physically attacked my sister. With a pillow. But still. It wasn't a pleasurable sight to see or experience).

The trouble of a ticket is that you have to buy it up to a year or half a year in advance.
A year or half a year in advance; you're pumped, excited, giddy, about the prospect of seeing one of your favourites live.
One of those artists that's promptly featured on your list:
'Artists I must see live once in my life'.
This is your chance. You grab the chance. The chance is yours.
A perfect fairy tale is being imagined.
The music is adored. The taste intensified.
Only the idea fuels your body. Fuels your mind.

However.
A week before the actual gig life is anything but a fairy tale.
You've forgotten.
You're stressed. You're worked up.
The date has suddenly become an inconvenience. A burden.
(An exciting inconvenience. An excited burden.)
A week becomes a day.
A day becomes the day.
Life is moving too fast and you try to hold on for your dear life.

The tickets!
You still need to print them!
The ink has almost run out!
Fly or die! (Fly, you lucky bastard.)

Time is moving too fast. Time is moving too slowly.
You think you're going to faint only by the prospect of the idea of going.
Of seeing one of your favourites. Of not enjoying it. (You're not going to enjoy it, whispers a warm soft voice in your cold, cold ear.)

Nerves.
All of the nerves.
The people.
The closed room.
Cramped.
Boxed.
Nerves.
All of the nerves.
Public transport.
City.
Cramped.
Boxed.
Nerves.
Stress.
Why?
Why did I do this to myself?
Why?
I don't want to go.
I don't want to go.
I'm not going.

Why.
Why?
I want to go.
I want to go.
I want to go.
I don't want to.

You try to convince yourself that this is fun.
This is what fun is.
This is fun.
You find this fun.
FUN.
Fun.

Time to go.

Nerves. Constant nerves.
Nerves.
Pumped.
Excited.
Giddy.
Euphoric.
Transformed.
Transported.
'Like a flower in the snow.'
High.

The end.
You don't want it to end.
You want it to never end.
This feeling.
This comfort.

The lights turn on.
Reality hits back with a bang. But softly.
The beating in your head confirms the beating of the soul.
A rush.
A fairy tale.
A big black hole.
Nothing but a tight sleep.
A woozy morning.
A dizzy day.
A hazy night. 

The trouble of a ticket is that you have to buy it up to a year or half a year in advance.
A year or half a year in advance; you're pumped, excited, giddy, about the prospect of seeing one of your favourites live.
You forget the trouble. The trouble is outweighed.
The trouble disappeared.
(But still exists.)
(Why don't you remember?)
(Don't you want to remember?)
Oooh, are that some tickets on sale?



PICTURES OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN
I actually have 'found' a new philosophy whereby 'the moment' is more important than the documentation of 'the moment'. Also: I'm really bad in taking pictures 'in the moment', but in this case, whereby 'the moment' is right in front of your eyes, it's tempting to ruin it by constantly trying to document 'the moment' instead of trying to live 'in the moment' (that's also to say: your crappy mobile phone won't ever capture the feeling that such a 'moment' provokes; therewith: the feeling is restrained by the fear of dropping your phone). I actually even got a tiny-winy bit annoyed by this girl standing in front of me Snapchatting e-v-e-r-y-t-i-n-g *sigh* Millenials, amiright?! Anyway, here are some pictures of the lovely Jake in action...

Love,
Dominique

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