I'm in the middle of an unpleasant month. I have unintentionally watched the sun rise almost every day. Sure, I could probably straighten out my bad habits tomorrow, as a smoker would say, but I'm in the middle of a project. I'm trying to write a group of heartfelt songs to record sometime in the future. I've written countless amounts of shallow and generic songs in the past that are cringe-worthy. My track record needs improvement in the lyric department so I have delved into the deep sea of words in my head.

My taste in music has entered threshold after threshold my entire life and I've naturally become more critical with age. Around the age of 13 I started listening to Bob Dylan and my palate was completely thrown off. "What do you mean 20 verses and no chorus? What the heck is he talking about?" He was a mystery. His lyrics still baffle me and unveil their meanings at the appropriate time in my life. But when it hits me, it hits me. The songs break me down and beat me to the floor. Everyone carries that handful of songs with them every day. They can control you and twist your spine at any moment. This is what I'm trying to do. It's a delicate process that requires endless amounts of revision and those are the hours of sleep I've missed out on recently. I usually start late in the evening, when everyone is settling into bed because it's the only time I can have complete silence and solitude in my mind. I don't drink or smoke anything, as one would imagine, but I do require time to sit quietly in thought and meditate. Sometimes I'll physically brainstorm on paper like a 7th grade essay but other times I'll pace around the room until I can kindle the fire. The nights have been brutal and sometimes I open doors of bad memories that bring down my confidence and mental stability but I think either those emotions get fondled with, or they remain dormant. I refuse to choose the latter. I'm not sure why it is, but something happens after 2am. I've basked in enough silence I guess. A river of ideas starts to run through my head and I've reached a state of complete concentration. It's a great feeling and all but my bloodshot eyes start to get itchy as the pen starts to move. Once I pass the writer's block, it's hard to stop.

Maybe soon I'll write something balanced between being relatable and generic. There's a thin line between the two. I can't say I'm anywhere near a master at writing lyrics but I think after years of analyzing lines that have made a profound impact on my life, I can recognize a good one and a bad one. Maybe I should just move to Alaska in the winter.