A Demented Narrative

As a Libra, deciding what to eat can be a horrendous process, not to mention deciding what to do in my life, where to go and so on. For a good many years, I've had it in my head that music was the thing for me. Me and music, meant to be. For years I was happily married to the dream. But then, things started to go terribly awry. Life said, "Start paving your fucken dreams, or just settle down with a simpler life, kid." Me, a natural tweak, think long and hard - "I can't handle immense pressure." (But I can.) Or, "I'm incompetent when left to my own devices." (But I thrive in a group setting.) This goes on and on and on. For at least a year, I've been looking at music (rather skeptically), and I've been looking everywhere else too.

Things were slipping. I started to believe myself when I said, "You cannot be the music! You are not talented, nor are you dedicated to anything. Look at your life thus far! Failure!" And I wasn't the only one to believe it.

I wanted to be special; I shed it like snakeskin. I thought people would love and appreciate me if I could actually do this thing. I just wanted to prove I was capable of above-ordinary feats. Then they would know I was strong. And my apparent weirdness wouldn't be looked upon in such a negative light. But what does this matter to me now? I'm not special, nor am I strong, nor is my strangeness unordinary. I'm just a human being, nothing more, nothing less.

Silly desire to be appreciated aside, music was a venue for my angst. As a young teenager, I was unable to communicate the new depths of what I was feeling, except through music. In this respect, music gave me great pleasure, more than art ever did, which was a road I had considered pursuing since I was young as well, a road urged by my family. It didn't take too long to realize that I was limited with that tool. I saw some of my friends, so naturally gifted with visual art, and I could readily accept that it wasn't for me. I have a stack of papers saying that writing is a way I easily express myself, but how to set a mood, an atmosphere with writing - how to transfer a feeling? I've experimented long and hard with the written word, but it comes short of music.

Then there comes a time where you have to wonder, "What's the point of being an artist? What practical good could I possibly do?" You look at people who are going to third world countries to help out, you look at charities, doctors, etc ad infinitum, all these people who want to help humanity first-hand, with more than mere feelings and concepts. You feel inadequate. You feel that what you're doing is not good enough. You sincerely want to help, but art is too abstract. It's not real enough.

So you consider other options, more tangible options. A few of them sound appealing, and so you seriously consider them. Soon it feels like a better idea than music, it's a more realistic path than something you've been dreaming up for years. You start to give up on this dream, sincerely give up. This is messy, emotional, and terrible, just like any good divorce is. And then you're signing the final papers. "I'm really fucking done with this," are the words you're about to mutter.

You have scoffed at fate, but somehow it intervenes right at that last second, like any movie. Several events, which I won't get into, happen all at once, slapping you in the face, saying, "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!"

You take these signs very seriously, and then you embrace music wholly. 100%. It doesn't matter if music is impractical, it's what you are, and you have to make it mean everything you can.

No more than a few days later, everything is thrown into upheaval. Everything changes. Decisions are quickly made, old friendships are stirred up, new ones form. Suddenly you're becoming a different person. Someone you want to become. Life says, "So you've decided? You're ready for this?" And then it begins to throw you hurdles, and new situations. I say, BRING IT ON!

Ally