There's a storm rolling in. The wind sounds like constant waves lapping up on a shore. I'm sitting here reflecting on my life. How I got here at this place at this time right now. I'm staring at my guitar, asking myself, "How could you ever stop playing?" I always tell myself people only damage you as much as you let them. So why did I let him? Why did I let myself be changed, defined, by that one person, that one experience? That's why I love punk rock. There's a hidden intelligence in it that people don't look for and only certain people can enjoy. That man would of never understood it. I wonder how many dreams he killed. As a musician I was venerable. Not comfortable with performing. But I had ideas. I loved the writing. It's still hard to believe I haven't written any songs in two years. I barely touch the guitar or piano. I still want to be that person I was, that I wanted to be but after being broken down so many times it's hard to enjoy that anymore. I'm trying to make myself get back into the habit of playing. But his voice is unfortunately what silences mine, even if it's only in my head.
