Which Way Do I Go?

I actually know what I intend to play at my open stage tonight. Of course, part of what I will play I'm going to improvise, but I have a clear eye on the starting line. It's too bad that there is a time limit, because once I hit the stage I don't want to leave, since I usually feel bad once the endorphins wear off. It's like my depression is in the audience, and he wants me to sit on his lap after my set. I can't say no, for we've been together for so long. I sneak out for a smoke and think about leaving, but my carrying bag is inside so I have to go back in. He nods his head towards it when I return. "Maybe you should write that depressing song that's been tumbling around in your brain tonight," he suggests, and I probably should, since I've pretty much just written my blog lately, which is just a form of improvisation all its own. That probably explains how I can go from saving the world to having my clothes ripped off by some stud, thrown into his bed and forced to do all the wicked things he wants to do. "You think about sex too much, bitch." Maybe I do; maybe I just think about it at the wrong time; maybe it's just one more reason to be depressed. I don't know. I look at the peoplle around me, and there's no one I want, and no one wants me; no wonder I sink into my own thoughts as some guy sings an insipid Eagles song. When it's over, I clap like everyone else, out of politeness if not enthusiasm. The guy did remember the lyrics. And when I leave, I will leave alone. My depression says he'll catch up to me at the shelter, and I think if I go somewhere else I can be free, but that wouldn't work. No matter where I go, I will be found. Only one escape that is certain, and I won't take that route, however tempting it might be. Hamlet said it best, didn't he? Best I just keep my mouth shut, unless I've got a song to sing.