Walking home in the rain is something I quite enjoy. There’s something tremendously soothing about it, more so if you’re listening to the right music whilst you stroll through the streets. Everyone has done it; a slow song comes on as you trudge across the watery pavements and suddenly you’re not on Argyle Street anymore, you’re in your own music video. And in that instant every lyric, every syllable, everyone and everything you see is there solely to be in that moment, that video, with you. Each passer-by is directly related to a memory in some way or another.
They’re nice in that moment, those feelings or memories that are quite painful. It reminds you that whatever it is that haunts you can still be turned into something beautiful, even if it is just for a few minutes and is all in your head.
All that suffering wasn’t for nothing if you can create from it. That’s what I tell myself; always have always will. I figure that all the bad things that have happened to me in life will all serve a purpose one day. It’s that belief that gets me through; it’s fundamental in order for me to create, write, compose. All the heartache and witch hunts; the bullying, the lying, the booze; the random sex and dangerous encounters, the daily struggle with my demons… All of these trials and tribulations are what creative people endure so they can make their art, right? It’s how they survive, it’s how I survive, whatever tragedy befalls me. Art. You take that negativity and from it you grow something positive. I’d rather have broken bones than be made of stone. Saying anything is better than saying nothing at all in terms of creativity because at least you got it out.
That’s why I’m writing this. Upon reading it back it seems like I’m just seeping out pretentious dribble but I don’t know what’s going to happen to me in the future. I don’t know if my depression will one day get the better of me, and what will I have as evidence that I was here? What insight will those in my life have to what was going through my head? Memories shared between friends only account for a fraction of the truth. Everyone is a saint when they die but I’d prefer a bit more honesty attached to my memory. I could keep all these posts to myself, in a personal diary type entry, but why should I hide what I feel? This may even help someone feeling similar – or it may make someone laugh at how pathetic they find it. I’ve survived a lot so I’m sure the stigma, jeers and mockery I may be subjected to for posting something like this are, in the grand scheme of things, rather irrelevant.
I may be branded attention seeking, pretentious or even ‘mental’ for what I write and post but at least I’ve said something. And as damned and down as I feel right now, I can take solace in that knowledge.