Here it comes again. That old bulkhead.
Frustrated. There is time set aside but I’m not sufficiently controlling my mind. A sharp tap to the forehead doesn’t lead where it should have led.
Sick of sycophants, sick of pity-laden glances. Sick of Buddy and his endless throwaway phrases, sick of being useless in the places where I used to feel so central. Sick of feeling less than instrumental.
Sometimes, the sparks are beautiful, they compel me. I can see a million butterflies and they float free. I can write a tune and the words to go with it, and everything pushes to the limit, and I feel good.
Those times are the best times, when all that I touch turns to gold and I don’t feel like I will ever grow slow and old.
But so rare. So few and far between. Today is not a day for me to seem like a genius, today is just a day for me to function – I don’t need this, there is writing to be done, and I am not the only one but I should be the best – I don’t need time to rest and I don’t need time to sleep, just give me a minute to hear the beat and the rest I should be writing with a flourish not still fighting just to finish the next verse or pre-chorus, why am I now so bored with this when this was supposed to be the song to sing along to, the trumpets announcing my return to all the rest of you?
Deep breath, take a moment, try to stay fresh. Don’t be running down the clock when you’ve got so much time left. Find an inspiration in the music of others – a memory of someone who you used to be in love with. Find some kind of energy from somewhere, son, because otherwise today will just be another wasted one.