I think I'd like to be the world's greatest lady blues guitarist and it occurs to me that maybe I am. If there are others before me, their names have been lost to history. Maybe I just need to read more.
There's a pattern here, there's a pattern and a structure only decipherable when the pattern breaks and the sour note stabs, making me curse these befuddled digits. Thinking of playing until my fingers bleed, but it never happens, not really.
Once I did dip my fingertips into ice water, until the numbness allowed me to go on.
I need to not be drawn in by the urge to check up on those from my past, through the tempting rabbit hole that is social media, it only creates more questions than it answers. My ego makes up stories, scenarios that are likely as detached from reality as one can get.
But sometimes it's nice to pretend. I like to think it's all about me.
Through the looking glass, I wonder if someone pointed out the mistake. Did they bring it to the surface? Did it leave a scar, a vicious red x on your psyche?
Did you shake your head, cover your ears?
It's probably not about me, anyway.
I have a song, but I didn't write it. Someone else's words are all I have to describe my experience. I've tried to put them as my own but it all comes out a plagiarism, so I am left only to paraphrase.
These words are mine, here. Put them to what melody you may.
The melody is not mine.