ft. Dewy, Destiny & Daisy Chains
Today I bought a bandana.
Not just any bandana, the old red, white, and blue. Patriotic. Problematic. Perfect. I wore it like a manifesto: sweaty, fraying, and slightly ironic.
Baseball game? Oh, you bet.
Hat? Nowhere in sight. Intentional.
This scalp was born to breathe freedom.
📸 Exhibit A: Me & Dewy
The manager, the myth, the beard.
We locked eyes and said nothing, because legends don’t need dialogue. Just vibes and sweat-stained jerseys.
Game over. Cue transformation.
Running shorts: Engaged.
Air Pods: In.
New character: Unlocked.
Three blocks into my route, the universe whispered.
There on the ground: a flower necklace. Soft. Wild. Disrespectfully gorgeous. Summer in string form.
At first, I passed it.
Then paused.
Then pivoted, like any main character would.
I looped it around my neck like it was laced with prophecy and pollen. And in that moment?
I wasn’t just some guy on a run.
I was a declaration of independence in motion.
Red, white, blue, and now, technicolor petals.
The bandana still holding strong.
The streets humming.
In that moment, I wasn’t singing the national anthem.
I was singing my national anthem.
Not the one with fireworks and forced applause.
The one you hum when no one’s around, because it's not for them.
The Elizabeth Woolridge one.
Sure, she likes the fireworks.
The flash, the noise, the fantasy.
But that’s not what she wants.
She wants someone who stays when the show ends.
Someone who doesn’t just watch her burn bright,
but sees her when the sky goes dark.
She doesn’t want to be worshipped.
She wants to be understood.
There’s a difference between being the anthem people stand for and being the voice they actually hear.
That’s the tragedy.
And the beauty.
Until then?
I’ll be out here.
Bandana on, flowers around my neck.
Running through the streets like a one-man parade.
'Merica, darlin'.
Loud on the outside.
Lonely at the chorus.