This is the last of countless attempts to fill the empty void of black screen that for so long has patiently awaited words. Finally, I may have something important to say. Maybe not.

Enough of the bitching. Enough with destroying the beauty of spun words with the complaints of a rather lost individual. Hopefully the absence I've taken from writing, the absence I've taken from life, has changed me for the better. No more introductions. I'll find myself better without them.


The music destroyed me. The songs that at one time had stirred every emotion within me began a transgression. Because the pain had shied from the satisfaction, I could no longer feel it. Because I wasn't killed by what it made me believe, I died anyway. It was slow, and however beautiful it may have been to the observer, it was disfigured in my sight.

It was a quiet ride back from the island, with the heat dancing lightning from one edge of the Earth to the other. The sky shed its darkness for brief seconds, distracting from all aspects but the present. The words, such elegant words, poured from the busted stereo speaker the old Thunderbird carried within it. I was there too, with the storm and the words and the busted speaker. I was there but so far away. I melted into memories, the song carrying me to lofty heights and unbearable lows. I couldn't feel it though. Because I was here, and the memories were just memories. A photo is a memory easily kept, stored safely in some box in some basement for years on end. It never changes, it never experiences. But a feeling isn't so easily hid. It refuses the safety of a box and the darkness of a basement. It lives and breaths the emotions and pieces them together like a skilled artist with their most amazing composition. But it changes. Its fickle and vunerable and follows the whims of whatever it may have experienced. And because it acts like an ornry child, I can no longer revisit it. That moment was destroyed, and I could only watch it fall.

It is lost. The music cannot re-open a wound like it did back then. I think I miss it. I think I miss the pain, and the sorrow, and the unknowing. I wouldn't want it back, wrapped in gold paper and ready to thrive. But I miss it. The colors were brighter, and so easily darker. The world was spinning too close to the edge, and I was halfway off as is.

I closed it that night. I caught my memories and feelings and I closed them in a box, wrapped in gold paper and ready to thrive. Then I placed it safely in the ocean that night, where it grew into something beautiful in the storm and the sea and the salt and the freedom. I'll never revisit it, and I don't want it back.