Second Guesses And Second Chances.
If nothing else, I’ll sprint down the street and get lost tracing the number eight in the back of my mind.
I wrote about my obsession with running and the serpentine symbol last week. And then pressed delete.
The words were forced. I was superficial. There’s nothing worse than being a fake. There’s nothing more disappointing when I’m the one that isn’t real.
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Eagerness sometimes encourages me to write and post words before I’ve thought them through.
Impatience is what made me ignore the signs with our present management and label, rushing into a situation that could’ve easily been avoided by a composed point of view.
Thoughtlessness is what helped me break my leg, trying to wrestle a clumsy drummer in Pontiac, Michigan.
Still, throwing myself into writing songs without thinking is the only way I could have accomplished anything musical. Trying to tame the impulsive pull and thrill of gas pedals and guitars is as unrealistic as heeding the pain swelling in my shins.
Because I don’t totally feel finished. I believe there’s still more to say through songs. It’s under my skin and in my blood. I can’t restrain myself with music. I know I can go further.