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So I keep spinning your music, looking for answers and bleeding willingly, feeling your depths, waiting for my husband to knock on the door and save me from jumping too. You are nothing, but so very loved."Īnd I am a simple woman who will never understand why that was never enough. I finished your sentence inside my head.,"But loved.
Sometimes I swear I can taste the spit of your mic. You ranted and raved how you were nothing. It lays there with a Scottish accent, always listening. But the empathy in my chest will never leave.
I just know my heart, sleeps at your mother's door, trying to hear a heartbeat. If LA was kinder? You'd love yourself then? Not sure I believe in Karma anymore. You were always gracious about your talent. Sweating, your most beautiful melodies played, tipping your hate for yourself.
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Knowing full well, karma doesn't "get" the things we do.to ourselves. I'm trying to shake the hands of "karma", forgiving you. I put my cross down, close my eyes, and wrap my arms around your chest. My heart goes back to, "I want him.here." And for a millisecond I am faithless. But God bless you in your self-deprecating name. Sometimes I wonder how arrogant we must be to think the gods want us. But it never touched your kindness or your fingers.
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Just wish you could've processed the skin you were in, how lovely it had been, for the most part. There's no reason you should've been thinking of me or my skin, anyway. Stitched up, you can see the seams where you tore me open when you decided to sacrifice yourself in the ocean. One is sand castles washed away like mandalas and the other is death. Wrinkling toes and a wave that drowns you. It's just the difference before the peaceful shoreline and a raging shore. I used to think they were world's apart, but I'm not so sure anymore. Some counterweight to conclude I am barely there without you. Peace is a tear in my eye. Hate is some tattered tear in my second-hand heart. Even an ocean can't swallow something that radiant. That said, it still hurts and music still grips me for hours while I wonder where such a light can possibly go. But I, have never gotten "better" or recovered. Scott may feel nothing right now, he may feel eternal peace. The head is a bit more clear, and talk to someone, anyone. If you are hurting and wanting to hurt yourself - God I beg you, go to bed. Without my husband's gentle touch on my shoulders, his eye-contact, I don't know if I'd still be on the ground from my twenties. Physically, it has been easier to get up from MS than such losses. People always focus on my multiple sclerosis. I've always had this huge amount of empathy and love in my chest, non-discerning, and maybe God wants it there, but it's been such a bitch to carry, and so very hard for me to get up sometimes. She told me I needed to stop, or I too become ghost-like. A psychic once told me that, and she's probably the only psychic I ever believed because she saw me in my office for hours at crazy times, listening to sad songs and crying. Music is so carefully discerned and chosen. Maybe I like the idea that I am sacrificing something of myself for them? I am my own masochist. I don't believe he thought of this as a choice.Ī record can spin like a blade to me.
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When depression takes hold, to wriggle yourself free can be nearly impossible. Sidenote: when it comes to clinical depression - I don't know how much of a choice it is.
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I don't really know how to circumvent that, build a fort and live at the base of it - I pretty much just listen to sad songs for hours and hours in the wee hours of the morning until my husband gently puts his hands on my shoulders and asks me to stop hurting myself. Especially, when you love so hard and their choice is suicide. Whatever someone chooses, my heart pays a consequence. God put me here for human connection and I am so deeply connected to others, that it's almost a problem. The one thing I ALWAYS know is that there's always a "who". I practice instruments, do brain games etc. My cognition is being swept away by ten years with multiple sclerosis. I don't carry a library with me.Īnyway.I was looking for the chords and I bumped into another page. So my book, comes everywhere with me, AND I have about 10-15 of them. A woman loses her inspiration after a while. It's been ten years of writing articles that I'm paid generously to write, one book that was published (that all I see are flaws in), and then about ten other books that no one (probably) will ever see. My inspiration book comes with me everywhere. I was looking for the chords to The Drugs Don't Work by The Verve when I bumped into another page. I like singing on my ukulele as the sun rises. I woke at 3 am like I do every God-forsaken morning.
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