A Way Out

It seemed as if the dressing room was another world apart from the stage.

The rhythmic chants of the screaming fans had evolved into the soft humming of the air conditioning system. The multitude of blinding stage lights had died, and were replaced with the unfriendly gleam of fluorescent lights. It was the kind of cool illumination that exposed all imperfections when Jimi looked at himself in the mirror.

I used to live in a room full of mirrors; / all I could see was me. / I take my spirit and I crash my mirrors, / now the whole world is here for me to see.

He recalled the moments he spent on stage that night, in the spotlight, and as the focus of thousands of eyes. He recalled falling to his knees, his hunched posture, head hanging down toward the floor. He recalled how he had called out in desperation, the very depths of his soul exposed: If you know real peace, I want to visit with you backstage… peace, real peace, he could hear himself saying.

Most of all, he recalled the sound of silence.

And now he waited.

He waited for a knock on the door, a voice which carried word of true peace, of true hope.

He waited alone in the stillness, his thoughts frantic, restless… haunting him and clouding his senses.

The story of life is quicker then the blink of an eye, / the story of love is hello, goodbye…

To be surrounded by a crowd… he would give anything.

The world spun, rapid in its fire. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of waterfalls could be heard- a chorus, rising above the constant ringing in his ears. Echoes from a far-away land resonated in the silence of that dressing room. Over and over. Over and over and over again, his own words floated in the dark, colorless, traveling around the earth and back again to where he knelt… I have been dead a long time. A long time. I have been dead. Dead. Dead.

I am dead.

He became very still, staring straight ahead at a stain on the wall. The chaotic ramblings of his own brain were shouting at him, volume ever rising. Rising, louder, louder, to the very point of death. Nothing! You are nothing, the voices shouted and shrieked, louder still. The torment dug down into his soul: sing a song, Jimi. Sing, sing, sing. Sing and play the hell out of that guitar! Play that damn guitar to hell… The volume of the noise, the voices, the shouts fell on him with the weight of the entire universe. The entire universe, empty and meaningless as it may seem. It crushed his bones.

Suddenly, the chaos was swallowed in an instant by a black hole in a dark corner of the sky.

Jimi sat quietly, with a kind of distorted, clouded clarity.

At that moment, he knew what he had to do…
-ec


*This piece was based loosely on the story of Jimi Hendrix a few nights before he died.*