⥞ BACK
do I even care about music? Why do I keep doing this? Do I care about anything? I wonder if the people who do ‘well’ did not think they could do well until they did. Or if it’s ever possible to feel you’ve done well. Oh well. I don’t care. I don’t think I do. Am I doing it for me or someone else? For anybody else? Perhaps for nobody. Time will tell. I anticipate there will be a day when it all comes together, though that’ll likely be when I die. Am dead. I wonder if this is all I ever wanted, and this is why I am here. Where I am it becomes shockingly apparent all we ever wanted is to forget who we ever were. And one day maybe we’ll realize and find what we were looking for. Ourself. An eternal game of intrinsic hide and seek. So why make the music? Who am I looking for? Me… It hurts when others don’t see it, and when they don’t see me. It leads me back to quickly to where we all are, wondering what is the point. And just when you think you know…here we go again. Bound by my own shackles. I wonder about popularity and consider how it’s too difficult for me to unentangle that from the art on its own. It’s torturous. And strange that life is so click driven. And I hate saying that, because I know it’s mental. Everything is. I am what I believe and I see what I am trained on. Perplexing. How much control do we really have? The world may never know… So what is popularity anyways? It feels like a life well lived. But the popular ones assure this could not be further from the truth. I suppose it needs to be seen to be believed. Deep within it seems so impossible to reckon it’s not art if not heard. I am drifting from myself, estranged and distant. Indifferent. I want to be free.