Downfall Of Amplification -Phan-

dissociating red

I fuck up relationships, every time I think that I'm close to someone I have to go and ruin it.  I did it with my sister, Monica.  Cussed her out when I was an arrogant teen who thought I was better than anyone.  Lilly and I broke up after the tour ended because I couldn't handle life off stage.  Mike and I have never had a good relationship.  And now with Phil, I had to go and ruin his performance.  It would be nice to finally get something right.  

Out of anger and frustration, I throw my music off of the piano letting it soar through the air around me.  I can't do anything right.  As my broken songs filter around me, I can only see flaws, incomplete, trying too hard songs.  The keys were once an extension of my soul, but now the black and white feel as odd as snowfall in June.  

I only have ever wanted to be good enough for myself.  Why am I now struggling to complete that?  Have my standards risen?  Or maybe I just lost my knack for it.  The constant stress of wanting to create but not being able to is the worse kind of anxiety.  It's horrible because it's constantly reminding me so.  Mike always trying to dig out hits from an already empty hole.  Old fans sadness at my absence.  Every day I pass that fucking record at my office.  The maroon haunts my dreams, the lyrics scripted in that damn font.  The piano is still but yet follows my every move.  Creeping up on my heels and digging at my shins.  Begging me to use it for its purpose.  

"I fucking hate you!" I slam my fist against the keys causing a sound to match my mood.  And as tears begin to form in my eyes I slump against the poor instrument. 

It's not the piano's fault.  Or the bass or guitar or drums or anything.  I wish it could be, though.  Something I can pass the blame onto.  But I know that the only thing stopping myself is me.  And I'm crying because I care. As much as I put on an outer shell of lax inside I really do care.  I want to make music and go on tours and meet people.   I want letters sent to me by fans who really appreciate my lyrics.   I want to be better than what I am and it kills me, ,, 

Dissociating is a weird thing.  I can feel myself splitting like glass being dropped.  All my edges and dips being studied under a microscope.  My personality melts away so that I'm only left with my raw emotions.  Usually, I would ache for this feeling when I would write music.   That was because then I would use this vulnerability to create art.

Now I just use it for my own destruction. 

I find myself laying on my pages of songs looking up at the ceiling with warm tears staining the notes and lyrics. 

There's something they don't tell you about being creative. And by they I mean those who raise you to embrace it, teachers, guardians, parents, siblings, whatever.  They never say the negative side of it.  Yes, you may be able to think up the most wonderful place on earth with giant clouds that work as cars and puppies with unicorn horns.  But what they don't tell you is that the creativity comes with a price.  For every puppycorn there's an equally horrible counterpart.  I can imagine all my demons in perfect detail.  Work out the way their hair falls and fangs glisten.  I can conjure up every way possible I can screw up, replay it in my head like a blooper real on repeat.  

Biting my lip I push my hands through my hair.  I know it's a dumb thing to worry about and I know I overexaggerate but that's how I work now.  Childhood fame is not a very reliable source of happiness for your whole life. 

I overthink and overact to try and get it right. 

And when I think of my future I try to imagine what I would want.  Somehow there's nothing.  When I was younger it was bright and beautiful and full of adventures.  Now, my future scares me shitless.  Mostly because I don't know what I want.  If I could be sure about something again I think I would be the happiest person in the world. 

My phone rings, I let it. 

I don't want to get off of the floor, right now my anxiety and depression deserve my attention.  Whosever calling can wait until this wave passes over and I go back to my normal self.  Well, until the next tsunami hits.  

They leave a message and when I hear the voice I sit up. 

"Hey Dan, it's Phil."  He pauses for a second, "I just uh, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for the other night and that Mike and I missed you at work today.  I had your coffee all ready and everything this morning.  Mike can't get ahold of you either and I wanted to make sure you're okay.  Call me back when you get this or don't, it's fine.  Just stay safe. Alright, bye."

Wiping the tears from my face I stand up.  My feet carry me to the other side of the room where I keep my blank music sheets.  

AN: AYe fam, been a while, hasn't it.  Yeah, I say that all the time but I've been struggling to find inspiration to write.  And as you can probably tell I found myself putting a lot of that frustration into this chapter.  Dan and I are the same person, aight. 

Hope you enjoyed this metaphor-filled pretentiousness, have a nice year.