Kanye's twisting of the language; he may be a dick but he's also a teller of truth.
I have to be right, and I have to do it now. I've been wrong for so long that the ache has become a chronic friend. As Gabriel García Márquez once wrote, anguished memories are like old scars. The only way to live through them is by erasing them from the mind and understanding their durability — they will come back without warning and without reason. Like the memory, the pain endures.
I thought these things last night as I watched and frolicked with some colleagues from the Paragraph Factory. As a party it was epic: three-finger shots of Patron served neat, mounds of food, big personalities filling the room at an upscale downtown restaurant. Anyone looking in would see that crowd and realize these are people who enjoy life.
In the middle of that joyous mayhem I felt the memory plunge its blade into the middle of my chest. For a moment I thought I was having a panic attack, a heart attack. I looked across the room to find a set of eyes that would make it better, then realized those eyes weren't even in this room. Even another Patron did not dull the pain.
But it's copacetic. As I said, the knife and its cut have become old friends. We know each other, know our roles in this idiocy. I'm more than happy to say goodbye to these annoying acquaintances, but I'm better for the experience. Again with the Kanye: that don't kill me / can only make me stronger.
A friend who sent me a Facebook message on Sunday is right: I am stronger. Still dreaming improbable dreams. Still believing in hope. Still here.