A combination of motion sickness from jarring subwoofers and belligerent strobe lights helped me make my decision to come here. Alongside me, slowly becoming a reclusive while being protected from all the outside dangers of the world, is my sociality. In my hand is a glass of electrolyte water. I no longer replace my genuine energy with enticing, taurine infested, health-diminishing cans.
I removed the windows and took the doors off their hinges; the way Jeep lovers parade their vehicles on highways. The breeze pays a visit like a welcoming neighbor when you first move in, every evening. My eardrums are relieved from their duty and can rest. I can hear water droplets fall from the nearest faucet to my left, as well as hear the metal finish on the kitchen appliances behind me; their sound like a playground swing slowly moving back and forth.
I’m used to having a villa, a loft, a mansion I bought, but never get to use. I’ve replaced those houses with one home that’s secluded, yet visible to those who have come for the same purpose. I’ve replaced those houses with thousands of sheets of paper. I might as well have destroyed the forest that surrounds it. With these papers come scribble, crumbled verses, laughable choruses, and disowned thematic material. Disowned like some children by their parents.
I’ve replaced my fortitude with solitude. I’m in a rented house my manager made sure was off the grid. The rented house I confine myself in is mostly glass. It’s modern architecture ages the way my relatives do; it doesn’t crack. By September next month, this will have marked my seventh year in hiding. What I don’t know now is that, in my return from this hiatus, my album will have charted the U.S. Billboard 200. To cap it off, my ungrateful piece of work just couldn’t take the accomplishment.
So, I’m here: suppressing the ideas that try to escape captivity, executing my darlings and then murdering them, yet forcing this album to become a reality. This is the process of a perfectionist. My progress bar reaches 99%, and by the time 100% arrives, every second waiting feels pointless.
Had I not driven away to Oregon, taken my excursion to the mountains or buried myself deep in the woods, my label would’ve dropped me. I felt my only choice was to reach the outer borders of my shrinking world. I’m still grounded. I’m still aware of all that happens around me, despite my seemingly everlasting rehabilitation. I’ve regrouped long enough to buy me another year of having my career.
The USB flash drive is corrupted with my dissatisfying abomination. And while that genie stays trapped in that USB, the board and business moguls get their three wishes: take a percentage of my earnings, take a percentage of my endurance, and take a percentage of my life.
Once again, I’ve broken that glass ceiling; the one many people before me claimed they could even reach. Once again, I’ve broken the fourth wall. Once again, I’ve told a lie to myself: that this would one day be me. Now I take my sledgehammer and shatter that dream.
I removed the windows and took the doors off their hinges; the way Jeep lovers parade their vehicles on highways. The breeze pays a visit like a welcoming neighbor when you first move in, every evening. My eardrums are relieved from their duty and can rest. I can hear water droplets fall from the nearest faucet to my left, as well as hear the metal finish on the kitchen appliances behind me; their sound like a playground swing slowly moving back and forth.
I’m used to having a villa, a loft, a mansion I bought, but never get to use. I’ve replaced those houses with one home that’s secluded, yet visible to those who have come for the same purpose. I’ve replaced those houses with thousands of sheets of paper. I might as well have destroyed the forest that surrounds it. With these papers come scribble, crumbled verses, laughable choruses, and disowned thematic material. Disowned like some children by their parents.
I’ve replaced my fortitude with solitude. I’m in a rented house my manager made sure was off the grid. The rented house I confine myself in is mostly glass. It’s modern architecture ages the way my relatives do; it doesn’t crack. By September next month, this will have marked my seventh year in hiding. What I don’t know now is that, in my return from this hiatus, my album will have charted the U.S. Billboard 200. To cap it off, my ungrateful piece of work just couldn’t take the accomplishment.
So, I’m here: suppressing the ideas that try to escape captivity, executing my darlings and then murdering them, yet forcing this album to become a reality. This is the process of a perfectionist. My progress bar reaches 99%, and by the time 100% arrives, every second waiting feels pointless.
Had I not driven away to Oregon, taken my excursion to the mountains or buried myself deep in the woods, my label would’ve dropped me. I felt my only choice was to reach the outer borders of my shrinking world. I’m still grounded. I’m still aware of all that happens around me, despite my seemingly everlasting rehabilitation. I’ve regrouped long enough to buy me another year of having my career.
The USB flash drive is corrupted with my dissatisfying abomination. And while that genie stays trapped in that USB, the board and business moguls get their three wishes: take a percentage of my earnings, take a percentage of my endurance, and take a percentage of my life.
Once again, I’ve broken that glass ceiling; the one many people before me claimed they could even reach. Once again, I’ve broken the fourth wall. Once again, I’ve told a lie to myself: that this would one day be me. Now I take my sledgehammer and shatter that dream.
( Behan the Scene )
www.ChordsAZ.com