There are times I loathe the world.
Too deep a feeling, but not in a “millennial” sense
(you know, those so-called depressed blabbermouths who can’t stop announcing what they are feeling. There is a big difference between depression and craving for attention).
That’s why I shut myself up and don’t talk much when I do. Because even the world doesn’t deserve to know what I am going through.
I’m not like them, but I can pretend.
I catch myself asking what these days are for.
I catch myself pleasuring myself with porn – a series of scratchy discs on the fourth drawer.
Repetitive stomping of flesh. Flap flap flap. In 5-10minutes, it’s over and I find myself reaching out for something to read. Other senses need to be triggered.
Some old music magazines I love collecting or maybe the daily bread to balance my guilty ordeal.
Something to distract this restless mind.
Sleep – that I need according to my neurologist, but what is it for but for dreams to be nested.
I have putting my writing off and I resent myself for that. There are ideas wriggling like worms, in search of a blatant hole to peek on. But I can’t seem to find a proper time to collect them and spill them. A proper canvass. I have been criticizing myself for not being good enough.
It doesn’t help that people don’t even recognize that I write differently than other songwriters. That I play with words more thoroughly. That I pay attention.
They want the usual hooks. The usual rhymes. The usual staccato. And the problem is words are taken for granted.
And I am getting tired recently.
But I am glad to be alive. Honestly. These questions just linger once every blue moon.
Yes I am lying.
It is more than what I expect.