Hurt

Oh fuck. I'm listening to Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt" by Nine-Inch Nails.

I'm losing it right here in the office.

I'll continue when it's over. Hang on.

Whoo. That was intense. There's something to be said for singing from the vantage point of a lifetime of experience and continuous commitment to searing honesty, y'know? When I was singing at the age of 20, I didn't really get that concept of needing life experience to sing certain songs. I thought that after I gained that experience, singing would be this shattering experience where every tune would tear the scar off some healed over hurt and break my heart again.

In fact, it doesn't actually feel like that. It's just that way more songs make sense to me now, and when I sing them, I can just sing them without being a stranger in a strange land. With any luck, it's the audience that has their scabs picked bloody by your clawing truth.

Heh.

Liar

It's possible that I'm lying to you about everything.

I woke up at 6 a.m., fretting. I decided that I'm living on the surface of things and not really facing some of my core pain. I'm lying to myself all day just to get by.

Am I using this journal (and, by extension, you) to bolster my lies?

Probably.

And is there a connection between the resumption of my heart arhythmias and the resumption of my halting, crab-like movements towards a career on stage?

Oh, I think so.