Journal #3

Well, I guess I kind of fucked up the numbering of these journals, this is technically number 4, but oh well.

Sometimes I listen to the music I've written and I marvel at the fact that I wrote this..
It's seems far beyond me that I'm capable of writing things like this musically.. but here I sit listening to my own music over and over again, it's almost the only thing I listen to anymore. Maybe it's a vain fascination or maybe it's me just trying to validate myself to myself, but honestly I think it's because it's the only thing that really catches my attention.

Some of these songs have been floating in my head in one way or another for as long as a decade, and to finally hear them out loud is marvellous to me.. nevermind the shitty production of them or the fact that I needed to do it in midi, because i can't play a fucking trombone. To me the realization of my own imagination is something truly precious. I've finally found a way to tell my story something I've long sought for.

My thoughts usually come across and jumbled and probably always will, which I think is why my poetry is usually so concise and to the point, to try to realize what's going on in my head before it gets out of hand, otherwise I plague my computer with a rush of words and images that really make no fucking sense, because they show up out of sequence.

Take this journal for example, none of it makes any fucking sense whatsoever and tomorrow I'll have forgotten I've written it, then two days from now I'll look back and wonder what the fuck I was talking about.

The bottom line is.. the music, I don't know where it comes from, I don't know how i do it, I wish i could find a way to produce it better, but I feel like it's slipping away. Honestly, I don't even know if i can play half the stuff I've written anymore. I'm not a performer and I'm a third rate guitarist at best, but the compositions survive, and I truly want that to be what I'm remembered by when all is said and done.