Ravelle

Maybe I shouldn't be writing right now. Maybe this isn't the time, maybe this isn't the place. This isn't a blindland, it isn't a closed door. Everybody sees, everybody reads. Everybody gets hurt and everybody misses the point. And right now, there's this honesty inside, this lack of metaphor that I'm not sure I can risk.

       I'm not sure I can put it here, and I hate that.

I've got a new guitar. It's goregeous.
But within an hour of getting it, I broke a string.

Money's tight, so replacing has to wait. It still plays, it still sings, but there are notes missing. Ranges unavailable. There are songs I can't play, places I can't go. It's frustrating in ways that are hard to explain. The joy of learning something new, of caressing new curves, somehow shortened and unfinished.

              I play with 5, but keep reaching for 6.

And there I am all over again. My Midas greeds spirited away like some hungry pig. Unable to rejoice in good enough, not quite satisfied with what should be clear. It effects me in ways I don't like, it brings with it the vibes and the voices, making me deperatley want to get off the merry go 'round, even if it is the vortex. Even if it is the main nerve.

What's worse, all of this happened before I received the death threats in the mail this morning. The ultimatums, the red lettered questions, the anger, and the confusion. I am all these things in all these places, I am every note on the fretboard. I am because you say I am, even when I wish I wasn't.

              That's why I need the string.
              That's why I miss it when it's gone


[Listening to: Etro Anime, "Danger"

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