There's an undeniable electric feeling rolling like waves over the streets of (Seattle's) Capitol Hill. The streets are thronged with serfs and lords, bailiffs and jesters. There's an intoxicating relief, a knowing hopefulness that winks at you from around the streetcorner and honks at you from the multitude of sensible automobiles that slaps a silly grin across your face. The wars aren't by any means over, but ticker-tape falls from windows on to the crowds below like the old celluloids at the end of #2. Fireworks fill the sky and everyone you meet is another heart that was broken until tonight. The din of happy shouting is just icing.
It feels like the Bastille's been stormed. It enraptures like the return of Helen to Greece. It massages the idea of an America with a heart back to life. I've never known a night like this.
I'm 31 now, but I had never been old enough for a celebratory drink in the neighborhood pub after the good guys won. Not until today. It's an intoxication that overtakes the chems in my bloodstream and shoots me up into a high like unto no other.
It must be very easy to be cynical about the process or the choices or the system. I mean hell, I just did it hours ago myself, so any dipshit must be able to. And I'm sure that this feeling of enlightened goodwill, of nationalistic unity will fade. Before I know what's happening I'll be crashing out and it'll all be another set of DT's. That's the circle and now that it's spun my way the day when it spins back is 24 hours closer.
It's been written that politics is like a drug, that it gets in the blood and rides you through high times and into low dregs alike. Well we're buzzing now, so don't harsh me, man. We'll worry about the hangover once the honeymoon's over.
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