This guy really knows how to make a guitar scream in pain in a way that must shake every soul to it’s core. And the lyrics aren’t bad either- some of the best plain-worded, cut-to-the-bone-kinda true blues lyrics I’ve heard in a minute. I turn the volume up in my headphones to dangerous levels, gripping a cardboard cup of coffee in a sanitary, hip environment. I feel like a Hitchcock character- alone in public, living in a secret World, hiding in plain sight. I either intimidate people or they find my freedom and wildness distasteful. I’m becoming one of those tortured writers who hangs out in coffee shops all day on rainy days, just to get out of my fucking house/room/apartment. A lonely soul, struggling to connect in a roundabout way through art, terrified for many good reasons of more direct contact with others. Every shy person has plenty of good reasons. Me, I’m full of trauma. I was the kid that said hi to everyone I ever saw, trying to be friends with everyone on earth. I remember clearly the look of horror on the faces of the adults that cared about me, telling me that I might want to reconsider my generosity of spirit- the worried whispers. They tried to protect me, but I knew my spirit would be broken at some point. I can’t live life locked in a tower. I was never scared for myself the way they were scared on my behalf, cuz I knew I’d bounce back.
It’s almost two weeks I’m sober now. Yeah, it doesn’t sound like a lot, I know. Hopefully it will be much more before anyone ever reads this. It seems to me that even the darkest phase of every journey is full of wisdom and magic, it we mine it right. I want to document myself crawling out of this hole- why not? I’ve started collecting evidence against myself (photos and videos) to inspire me in my darkest moments to stay sober. We never need to go back to that Hell. I’m sure there are many other equally interesting, flavorful dimensions of Hell I haven’t seen yet. I’m not trying to keep revisiting the same dumb shit. Just like my ex-husband who introduced us, Alcoholism was pretty amusing for awhile, until the novelty wore off forever. Once you see how truly ugly something is (the “dark side”) - there’s no going back. There’s no unseeing what we’ve seen. I know- it hurts, right? Sometimes I do wish Will Smith would come to my house in a black suit and erase my memory with a funny flashlight, and maybe slap me in the face too, but it hasn’t happened yet.
I guess if it did, I wouldn't remember anyway.
