I was inspired by an amazing story I read last night, and I wanted to at least try and write something that could be semi-good. Let's face it. I was jealous. Heh. Right...anyway...this was written in about 7 minutes, from approximately 3:37-3:44 a.m.

I don't own 'em. If I did...uhh...it would be dangerous.
Lyrics are Napoleon, by Ani Difranco. Everyone should love Ani. Because...well...she rocks.



They told you your music could reach millions
The choice was up to you
You told me they always pay for lunch
And they believe in what I do
And I wonder if you'll miss your old friends
Once you've proven what you're worth
And I wonder when you're a big star
Will you miss the earth?
And I know you always, always want more
I know you, you'll never be done
Because everyone is a fucking napoleon
Everyone is a fucking napoleon


He always told me how he wanted to write something beautiful.

He said that being remembered, famous, a legend, wasn't all that he wanted. He dreamed of it, of course, he dreamed of it like any aspiring musician dreamed of radio airplay and music videos and sold out concerts. But he insisted that what he really wanted...needed...was to write something beautiful. Something that would move people, change lives, change the world.

He moved me. He changed my life. He changed my world.

I was silly to think that would be enough. To think that he would see all he meant to me, that he had changed the life, completely, of his best friend. But that's what I was; silly. I could never matter that much to anyone, especially not to him. He was the talentedsexyperfectbeautiful rockstar who couldn't be touched. No amount of anger, frustration, despair, loss, love, could penetrate his hardcore exterior. Not after they got their hands on him. They gave him a record deal and he signed their papers.

I wish I could have read those contracts. Maybe it would hurt less if I could read the agreements that told him he could never speak truthfully to his best friend again. The rules that made sure he wouldn't be himself anymore. Because if he had signed those, there would be an excuse. A reason as to his sudden withdrawl from and uninterest in the man he had lived with for six years.

I suppose I shouldn't be complaining. My baby's dream came true. He grew up and moved on and became the star we all knew he had in him. He's going to be remembered, now. He is famous, and I don't doubt for a second his chance at becoming a legend. Thing is, nothing he's written could be considered beautiful. Not for him. It's good. Great, even. He's talented and has the presence, his lyrics fit together well enough. But I know him. And I know how he can write, when he really wants to. When he has something to write about.

Correction. I knew him. I don't know who he is now. I don't think I want to. Because now he's the kind of man who doesn't call his friends. The kind of man who would rather tour the country with bandmates he's known for two weeks than remain a huge force in the underground music scene and live happily with people who love him, who'd give their lives for him.

He always told me how he wanted to write something beautiful.

He lied.