Fuck it, I'm through.
No more time will be spent wallowing in self pity and delusion. No more will I wait for the kindness and foresight of others to mend the broken shards of this shell I call home. No more.
I will say one thing in defense of frustration and depression: the creativity garnered from these undeniably kicks the ass of anything to come out of enthusiasm and merriment. The energy robbed though, is not worth the payout.
Easter weekend and all still is. In a sense I feel a kinship with this character called Christ. I look at it as a chance to be reborn. A spiritual resurection following the spiritual death of my mind. In the last two weeks I've written more songs, though not words for them, than any other time in memory. Though this purging of my head could be considered healthy, I worry that I need to be in some sort of distress in order to create. This can't be entirerly true though, as I still need words and melody for these snips of musical scitzophrenia. These will come, I'm sure, late one night after tossing and turning in a pale light, while foaming at the mouth and praying to the door knob of the great kingdom of Bath. Strictly a personal prayer, no time for others here, my madness dies with the sunrise, revealing in it's glorious light, the intricate path of word and metephore to complete said sonets.
Wish me luck, and don't block the bathroom door.
Fishbait
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