Journal on Healing
I think I try to label this sadness as other things. I call it fear about recurrence or about money. I call it discomfort when I feel I’m not taking care of the site or my body in general. I blame it on my medications or my hormones. I classify it as something old that…
I did it to myself Buried evidence in my flesh Sang no more, denying music At least a decade of numb decay Spent dying of security
Behind me wreckage lies Before me cinders fly
Music is the kind of work that makes me feel like myself. When I decide to create even though I’m tired, I find myself with more energy afterward, not less. More dreams, more joy. More life. Don’t listen to that whiny brain!