february fifteenth 🖤 conor oberst

three

Conor

11:00 PM, February 22.

Five things sit in front of me: a notepad, a pen, my guitar, a flask, and a pack of oyster crackers.

The lights are low. Either I can hear an owl hooting somewhere outside of my window, or I'm exhausted enough to be having auditory hallucinations.

I sit, desperately trying to think of words that seem to get stuck halfway to the page. I attempt to conjure up some metaphor, some allegory, something that actually means something to me.

I never write anything down. For once in my life, I feel as though I have nothing to say.

It's a miserable feeling, being this uninspired. If I have nothing to write, nothing to sing or scream about, then I'm pretty much useless.

As I mire in my own frustration, I realize that I've chewed more on my pen than I have on the crackers.

Figuring there's no use in it now, I sit my pen down and shake a few of the octagon shaped crackers from their package into my palm. Trying not to think about it, I pop the handful into my mouth as if they were pills.

I chew and swallow, feeling the hunger that has begun to fade into the background of my existence vanish to some small extent. Then I pick up the flask, washing it down with the burn of straight whiskey.

Some might say that I eat like a bird and drink like a fish. I say that I eat like an artist (starving,) and drink like any folk singer should.

When I put it that way, it sounds just a bit less disturbing.

If I were to go outside and light a fire to sing around, people wouldn't look at me with mock concern, asking that ever-present question that really has become the bane of my existence: what's wrong with you, Conor?

They'd probably just gather around and listen, maybe sing along.

Because then I wouldn't just be Poor Sad Conor, who sulks and pouts and sucks the fun right out of everything.

Then I'd be Conor, the Musician, who is allowed to scream and be sad and angry and hysterical. Hell, he's encouraged to be that way.

Once I'm less human, assuming the role of the tortured artist, people stop caring about how much I drink, how little I eat, why I'm so fucking upset.

At that point, my misery is their entertainment.

To some extent, I guess that's sort of dehumanizing. But I really don't mind it one bit.

The way I see it, it's something to live for.

I wish I were back onstage.

I think of the last album, the energy in writing it, recording it, then singing the words to maybe a hundred people at the time, all of them packed into basements and small venues. I think of the release of pent-up energy and frustrations, of how, no matter how nervous I was, I could look around the stage or into the crowd and genuinely feel like I had friends.

Even surrounded by wholly unfamiliar faces, I knew that, at least for a while, I wasn't alone.

God, I miss that.

Just as soon as I've placed my flask down, I'm picking it up again. Closing my eyes, I tilt it back, feel the warmth running through my body like the touch of a lover.

Soon enough, the flask is empty, and I am nothing more than a puddle of alcohol and self-pity, my limbs feeling only as stable as a gelatin cake. I cast a rueful glance over to my guitar, groaning as I push it away.