This is the hardest thing for me to come by. It used to be a constant. I was at all hours of the day coming up with new ideas. Now I just see shriveled up ideas that have been used by someone else at some other point. I understand that there are only a handful of stories to tell and a miniscule number of melodies that really do matter, but this is depressing when you can't seem to just put this fact aside and role with whatever you're thinking or feeling at that particular moment. I feel like I can't express what I feel anymore. I feel old. My music and even my words seems like just another cantankerous old man. That is just what I needed; two old bastards fighting their way through that anti-ethereal sludge that is this stained and muddied heart. I can't even call it a heart anymore; I gave what little I had leftover away about four years ago and didn't even look back for the last clear view. It didn't pain me at the time; to give it away without any real feeling of remorse was easy. I feel some regret for leaving it with one person. I could have given more of it to others if I hadn't given so much at once, but that's long since done. There is no use looking back to the past. It is what it is and I no longer have any say in this. I guess I will have to make due with the empty hole that's left.
I am empty and the only thing left is a thick residue that was someone. Maybe all I need is a strong solvent to cleanse the walls of the hole and make an attempt to replace some of my, well, whatever the hell it was that was there. It's been so long that I don't even remember what was there when I was younger. I burned a hot flame but my flame has started to sputter like a Model T with a bad carburetor. My family would laugh if they were to hear this claptrap because it would sound almost pathetic to them, but they don't know what it's like to have any kind of creative ability and they would never understand what it's like to have it ripped away so easily. I get no elation from any of this. What I do get in return is nothing and this nothing likes to serve itself up in large chunks. Imagine a brownie the size of the eastern seaboard but, instead of enticing chocolate, it were made of nothing; a black hole with no mass. This is what I have to deal with. My head is empty now and can't seem to make it produce anything worth my time or effort. Nothing seems to stimulate it anymore.
I need a spark but I see no lighter.