I started writing when I was a teenager and made up stories in my head long before this.
An outlet for the pain and slowly emptiness that is dragging me down. Trying to tear me apart bit by bit. I lived too long in a limbo. Only half alive, like a zombie.
Locked myself into an exile created by my own misery.
And for a long time all I wanted was to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
But when you are at your lowest, there is still a little stubborn spark left that won’t give up.
I thought I lost it. For a long time I couldn’t write, I stopped day dreaming and my whole world was one big black hole.
But than like in the film queen of the damned, music ignited this little spark. And slowly I’m trying to claw my way out of the morass of depression.
But it is so hard to come back to life.
For every step forward, I feel as if I get kicked back two steps.
Resurrection.
The transformation from a nobody into a somebody.
To be a true artist you should have felt the pain of being? Have been part of suffering?
And there has been plenty of pain in my life.
But I’m not ready to give up just yet.
That’s how I feel today
Tomorrow who knows?