Inspiration doesn’t come to your beck and call.

This marks 525 days since the habit stopped, the spark dwindled and was smothered. I haven’t written not as consistently, nor passionately.

People change, people come, people go.

Sometimes you have to consider what the problem is, wether you are the problem, if it’s always bound to happen, if you can change the future;

Sometimes you have to realise there was no future to change to.

I adore art, it resonates with me and gives me self control I’ve never had without.

My grief and regret lives on in song. There have been influential people in my life I’ve regretted meeting. Jay, Justin, Evalina, Noah, more yet to come. Processing this regret is painful and something I have not learned to do yet. I’m better helping others as I grow worse in turn.

Each has their own song in my mind, one for me to sorrow and mourn over.

Scene One, Sleeping with Sirens

Shinunoga e-wa, Fujii Kaze

Anything, Adrianne Lenker

Treehouse, Alex G, Emily Yacina

The most important part of a song is its process to the maker. Each song has a message in its making, intended or not. I’m a vandal in a sense, rewriting these songs for my own meaning, my own creation, but it will keep on playing.

As I take the meaning from these songs I take a lesson from these people.

Don’t lie for your own gain

You are not their saviour

Don’t forget what you fight for

Don’t dismiss the signs you see

Do I perhaps care too much? I’ve changed as an individual. I’ve matured, learned my flaws, tried to fix them, worsened them, embraced them.

The goal was to get better not worse, but I accept someone’s gotta be the one to cause pain.

I gave up on myself a long time ago. I’ve lost relatives at an age which should be too young to comprehend death.

I know it was not normal to not care, but time has drawn me away from what I call sane. I’m alien to who I once was. I have changed.

Paranoia

Insomnia

Emptiness

Hunger

Greed

I’ve developed many things, but nothing as hollow as Psycopathy.

Do I have a personality disorder? I can’t tell anymore. I swing left and right at such a rate it leaves everybody around me terrified.

Do I like it?

Do I hate it?

Or have I stopped caring enough to know.

I suppose all I can be sure of is:

I’m an alien in my own skin, alienating my own ability to love, in retrospect;