nikkiwritesstuff:

            You know how sometimes you wake up in the morning and you feel good? And sometimes you wake up exhausted, and sometimes you wake up in love?

            This morning I woke up sad. I woke up sad, but the first thing I heard was the chorus of Melody Dean. I’d burned a CD of Amanda Palmer/Dresden Dolls music for my suitemate, and she was playing it on her iPhone while she was in the shower; it was echoing through the suite, slipping through my door. I couldn’t be sad anymore.

            And as I lay in my bed listening, I realized that I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of all the morning sadness in the world slipping away because of Melody Dean.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of waiting in line for four hours in the November cold just to see her, and the feeling of having five strangers offer up their coats because they look cold. I want them to be offered hats and scarves and hugs and flowers.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of an anonymous hand reaching through the crowd to squeeze theirs as they cry, because once you start crying at an Amanda Palmer concert the term “strangers” doesn’t really mean anything anymore.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of hugging fiercely and crying unapologetically when they’ve been afraid to do either for years and years.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of having friends they’ve never met – friends in every place, across every ocean, all connected through this strange-amazing-wonderful panopticon of love and art.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of realizing that they are completely safe in the arms of hundreds of people they’ve never met. I want them to know the feeling of trusting and of being trusted based solely on the shared experience of loving a woman and her music with all their heart.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of being seen and heard and cared about. I want them to know the feeling of baring themselves to this little niche world – their songs, their stories, their paintings – and having that world listen and read and see them for what they are.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of hugging her, and of being hugged back in a way that will make them believe that they are vital and beautiful.

            I want everyone who hates Amanda Palmer to know the feeling of loving her. I can’t say for sure, but I’d wager that it’s a whole lot better.

Simply beautiful, and so true.