Limbo

The hardest part of living is the reality of it all.

I walk a lot. I travel constantly. Backwards and forwards, to places I aspire to know, and places I once felt part of. I try to be rational and indifferent, but all the time I’m thinking. I think myself to death. Every waking second I question and challenge everything I perceive as real; it affects my sleep. My feet ache, my stomach is sore, and I feel in a constant state of delusion as I arrive on yet another sofa, again.

Listen to what is beautiful. Don’t cry. No one is really there. Don’t cry. And when the potential loneliness comes in that studio flat you finally move in to, don’t feel alone. There are shadows watching over you.

I will finish my album in the place I have with no one. The high ceilings; the quiet; the space to breathe what is really there, under layers of worry and low self-esteem. I can paint again. I can sing to myself because I know it won’t be heard. And maybe no one will come over and no one need ever know I’m there. I can disappear completely.

Will I ever reach my full potential? Does anyone? 

Who could I even be?

And I sit here, contemplating, with Ludovico Einaudi playing in my ears, the way I have done time and time again since I was 11. And I am filled with that same serene emptiness, yet true sense of purpose. And still, somehow, I am so aware of what I must do.

Music like this never leaves you. It is my catharsis.

The hardest part of living is the reality of it all.

Dream.

AKC x