FA+
Shop
Glass Animals, kintsukuroi, & the year without a soundtra...
4 years ago
General
A journey ends
Glass Animals has been my musical obsession for a few years now, with the exception of 2020, being as it was the year without a soundtrack(I didn’t listen to any music at all).
Some time around my birthday, early this year, I started listening again and all was good. But with the recent drop in the temperature, the petrichor, and cronchy leaves on the ground has left me in a deep, nearly pitch black pitfall of melancholy. Cold made colder by that familiar feeling of isolation and the bipolar depression that holds its hand. The upwelling of emotions and the yearning for things that were lost; the things that changed and the things I cannot, has left me…well reminded me that, like kintsukuroi, I’m still a plethora of broken pieces loosely held together by cheap gilding that is already starting to chip away.
My life is heading in a decent direction, things are the best they’ve been in over 10 years, over 15 even. Despite this, that cancerous, mood-crushing black spot on my soul constantly oozes a thick ichor of doubt, regret and self-hate. It builds up, gets into every crack of my being and I’ll never be able to clean it out. Broken things can be mended, but they are also easier to break than they were before.
Glass Animals captures these snapshots of melody and harmony that force a mirror on myself and I am saddened and ashamed at the … corporeal thing that I am.
The art show that I mentioned before is the same annual art show (that I had gotten 1st place in two years ago) that eventually led to the theft of my prize money (and several bank cards and checkbooks of mine) and the subsequent severance of one of my longest friendships. My friends are the closest thing I’ll ever get to having my own family. I love all of them, we’re kin. To remove someone who was the /closest/ was a traumatic experience. I thought he was my soulmate, for lack of a better term.
i. was. devastated.
it. was. volatile.
Its echos still haunt me psychologically—such are the gifts of the clinically narcissistic drug addict. Two years have passed since I last spoke, since I forcibly jettisoned Damion Robert Miller from my life. Two years since I wrote dozens of Future Letters to myself— that were written for specific dates— encouraging me to stay the course and reminding me of the myriad reasons why I took that action. It was the lies, the stealing, the abuse, the constant gaslighting and…
the fucking psychological mind games….
I ended it.
Why, the fuck, does it feel like it hasn’t?
Some time around my birthday, early this year, I started listening again and all was good. But with the recent drop in the temperature, the petrichor, and cronchy leaves on the ground has left me in a deep, nearly pitch black pitfall of melancholy. Cold made colder by that familiar feeling of isolation and the bipolar depression that holds its hand. The upwelling of emotions and the yearning for things that were lost; the things that changed and the things I cannot, has left me…well reminded me that, like kintsukuroi, I’m still a plethora of broken pieces loosely held together by cheap gilding that is already starting to chip away.
My life is heading in a decent direction, things are the best they’ve been in over 10 years, over 15 even. Despite this, that cancerous, mood-crushing black spot on my soul constantly oozes a thick ichor of doubt, regret and self-hate. It builds up, gets into every crack of my being and I’ll never be able to clean it out. Broken things can be mended, but they are also easier to break than they were before.
Glass Animals captures these snapshots of melody and harmony that force a mirror on myself and I am saddened and ashamed at the … corporeal thing that I am.
The art show that I mentioned before is the same annual art show (that I had gotten 1st place in two years ago) that eventually led to the theft of my prize money (and several bank cards and checkbooks of mine) and the subsequent severance of one of my longest friendships. My friends are the closest thing I’ll ever get to having my own family. I love all of them, we’re kin. To remove someone who was the /closest/ was a traumatic experience. I thought he was my soulmate, for lack of a better term.
i. was. devastated.
it. was. volatile.
Its echos still haunt me psychologically—such are the gifts of the clinically narcissistic drug addict. Two years have passed since I last spoke, since I forcibly jettisoned Damion Robert Miller from my life. Two years since I wrote dozens of Future Letters to myself— that were written for specific dates— encouraging me to stay the course and reminding me of the myriad reasons why I took that action. It was the lies, the stealing, the abuse, the constant gaslighting and…
the fucking psychological mind games….
I ended it.
Why, the fuck, does it feel like it hasn’t?
Comment posting has been disabled by the journal owner.
