In The Subway.

Music, the emotions that can be drawn from it, it's really quite amazing. Music could intensify any situation, if you're angry put on something loud and you will feel like tearing someone's face off. And if you're sad, something slow and melodic and you will find yourself weeping over a ten year old issue.

Start with some Cohen and end with some Miss May I and you will get something like this.

--

In the subway, where we first met,
you saw me there, waiting for you,
a nicer man, you were expecting, I'll bet,
rich and smart, and handsome too.
But it was me, who would take you home,
it was me, who would take you to bed,
I own not gold nor silver nor chrome,
but I won't leave you, not 'til I'm dead.

It seems that's not enough,
as you left without a huff,
left me here to bleed,
like an unable steed,
from my heart and my soul.
You shot me and put me down,
leaving, laughing like a clown

Now I know you are unwell,
why would you do that?
Would you like to burn in Hell?
Perhaps I'll take a bat,
And connect it with your skull
for you think that you're free
and you're in a deep lull,
you know that it's me,
that's left to suffer,
and cry out in pain.
Now we'll see who's tougher,
now we'll see who's vain,
now we'll see who's tougher,
now that I've something to claim.

In the subway, where I left you,
I threw you on the track, at half past two.
You weren't quite dead,
but it wouldn't be long,
until the train would come past,
and squash your fucking head.
Then you'll be dead,
then you'll be dead,
and no longer will I suffer,
or endure this painful dread.

Sex, Cigarettes and Cohen.

Now, I don't usually smoke, but as the pressures of this year seemed to have a vice grip on me, I thought "Well, if nothing else is helping to ease the stress, maybe a smoke might." Sitting at the bus stop at night with beauty flowing into my ears, I could've slept, I could've gotten stabbed and I don't think I'd have felt a thing. I felt lightheaded, dizzy and a little bit sick to be honest, but the pains were bittersweet...

No, I take that back, there was nothing sweet about what I felt, I threw up once, twice, and countless times after that. And not just polite spills from my body, these episodes were violent, I hadn't vomited like that for a long time, and it wasn't pleasant. However, it did end up helping, I had already had a relatively good day, and I thought a smoke would just make it. It gave me a reason to take "relatively" out of the prior sentence...

There are few things that can help me achieve that tranquil state, sex is one of them, it's a beautiful thing that leads to an ultimate cleansing of the mind. Another is good music, I would put on, Cohen's "Songs of Love and Hate" and I would sigh in absolute composure. Apparently cigarettes are another thing that can give me peace, inhaling an immeasurable amount of smoke and letting it freely roam within me before exhaling it back into the world. Who would've thought, that all three would spark some kind of motivation within me, I'm suddenly confident and content with myself.

--

All I need now, is for this stability to hold for the remainder of the year.

In My Head.

Tripping over broken beer bottles in the streets, someone might hurt themselves. Someone might fall into the mess that's been made across this city and break the skin that once held a part of them together. Rotting fruit squashed up against the walls in suffocation, every last cell turning brown before becoming black; and once dead, cannot come back. This I have learned. A dirty society pushed into a rotting city, graffiti covered thoughts and broken ideas within them, all that is created is tainted with pollution. The windows to the mind, cracked and barred. The doors to our soul bearing nothing but a single hole in which we try to look through to find ourselves, as the handle has been removed. Perhaps the only way in is to break the door down off its hinges. Maybe finding our true self is a more violent and scarring experience than we though. Alas, the door to my soul is reinforced steel, and as the windows are barred I can't get in through there, I must find another way into myself...

--

To find ourselves, we have to break into our minds.

Respect.

I feel like a crazy person 'they don't get it, they don't get it', when honestly I'm still trying to work out whether I do or not. I thought I had something going for me, now I struggle to find motivation, even now when I'm writing, fuck. I used to write things worth reading, and what now? Well, now I can't come up with anything, I just rant and say the same things over and over again, I've said 'now' four times already. I used to be someone's friend, we stayed up and relaxed, and I played the guitar... We spoke about everything, he understood me, but after all this time, I don't think even he does. I feel like the few aspects of myself that I once held onto with pride are becoming things of embarrassment. While I wish I could be better at things, I wish more that I was proud of myself, for if I was truly proud, then I-- no... This is too unnatural, I never used to have to think about what to write, perhaps I'll get better over time.

--

Before anyone can respect you, you must first learn to respect yourself.