This is what Charlotte writes.

12.06.07

The buildings rise on either side of the street, cold, dark soldiers standing in rank, keeping watch over the city. The air hangs damp and chilly. The streets are slick, dark as well. The sky is obscured by a fog that swallows the tops of the buildings, fuelling the idea that they go on forever. The cold is more than just a feeling. It permeates everything - the warm winter jacket, the layers of undershirts, the heart. The glass store fronts reflect nothing but reality.

On one side of town, the vast warehouse is bustling with activity. Rows upon rows of pallets holding thousands of items, all awaiting the pair of hands that will grab them, place them in a box, and start their journey to a new home. By the time next week rolls around everything will have been replaced by things exactly identical. But for now, just a couple, just a few drops in that ocean, belong to me.

At home, the couch is red. Soft. In front of it the television glows softly, lighting up the room with the colours of a Dutch soap opera. The smell of cooking wafts in from the kitchen: pasta. Zucchini. Homework sounds come from the other room. The thud of a thrown book. My sister swearing at her math homework. I wouldn’t be surprised if it swore back, one of these days. But I won’t be around to hear it.

A few months have gone by and I can hardly remember. I can hardly remember how the nubbly cloth of the couch feels under my bare feet, tucked up underneath me as I curl up with a book and fall asleep. I can hardly remember how dinner tastes or what, exactly, my sister had so much trouble with. Most of the time this bothers me, but right now my mind is somewhere else.

I can’t really find the words to explain myself, but that doesn’t matter because I’m incapable of speech at the moment. I open my mouth but all that comes out are strangled squeaks that sound more like someone dying or crying than the joy that I’m feeling. My heart feels like a bag of microwave popcorn that has already been cooking for two minutes, when the pops are going off near constantly, and almost at the burning point. Almost, but not quite. Suddenly I understand why mothers get all teary whenever their baby does any little mundane thing. But really, even if I have 10 kids, not one of their first words is going to inspire anything like I’m feeling now. I want to run to the top of the highest building (though, in Gualala, that’s what, three stories up?) and scream “They did it! They did it!” but since I can’t, I settle for racing around my house like a two year old on crack, squealing. Dear God I’m glad that I’m home alone. As I speed pass the mirror I catch a glimpse of myself, and see that my face has gone all blotchy and my hair is falling out of its ponytail. But that doesn’t matter.They did it! Of course, it wasn’t just them, it was all of us, sitting at home, at work, at school, clicking the “Vote” button until our fingers bled, until our mouse buttons refused to work any longer. All of that clicking added up to one shiny award in Tom’s hands. It added up to the tears in the boys’ eyes. The tears in my eyes.

Not that any of this has to do with me, not really. Not directly, anyway. All my pride and happiness is just a product of my own conceit. But sitting here, watching, I am a part of something bigger. And it feels nice to belong.

Note: This was written right after Tokio Hotel won the Inter Act EMA.