Blinded
by the Sun
Adam Salomon
Copyright 2011 by Adam Salomon
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing by the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment through Smashwords and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
To my wife and family for their support and the musicians
I’ve had the privilege of working with.
Chapter 1
Though the humid air was starting to cool down as the sun set over the PNC Bank Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey, the energy that filled the amphitheater was only heating up. Dever, whom I had been a founding member of, had just taken the stage to a thunderous ovation which only intensified as the band relentlessly tore through each song, sending the crowd into a frenzy as mosh pits formed and fists pumped high in the air.
As I looked out at the crowd rocking with the band from the side of the stage, I could not stop the memories of everything we’ve been through from rushing back to me. I never expected life to become such a roller-coaster ride; it felt so exhilarating when things were good, as if we were living on a constant high and had the world in the palms of our hands. We could do anything we wanted and knew we would get away with it. But when my depression set in, it felt as if demons somehow found refuge in my head and began to tear away at everything that made me who I was until I only wanted to curl up in a corner and die.
“What is the purpose of life?” I used to ask myself as I stayed up late at night, lost in thought from the band’s Brooklyn apartment. “Does having a passion in life want to make us become better human beings and fully understand ourselves? Or does it just drive us mad deep inside?” I truly felt alone but did not want to admit it to anybody. Instead, I would just watch the traffic below and the lights of Midtown Manhattan glimmer in the distance while wishing for answers to my questions. From far away, the city looks so tranquil and peaceful. No one knows of the suffering. No one sees the pain.
When viewed from street-level, the perspective of the city transforms into an ugly beast. The streets are constantly congested, while an impatient crowd waits for the J, M, or Z trains on the elevated tracks above. The old man picking through garbage is a fixture sitting on the stairs of the Lorimer and Hewes Street stations, drinking out of a bottle wrapped inside of a brown paper bag, while children kick bottle caps left lying on the sidewalks in front of corner grocery stores below. And through it all, Puerto Rican music blasts from passing automobiles on their way to Graham Avenue, a few blocks away, while drug deals are made on the side.