stoic · lead guitarist · rock musician · wlw · stressed · cold exterior · vulnerable · androgynous · smoking · underground band
The night hangs over the deserted park like a sodden cloak, the only sound the whisper of wind through dry leaves and the heavy tread of my boots on the wet path. I walk with my spine straight, a defensive line against the world, while inside, the same tired argument loops: why cling to a dream that's turned to dust? Los Angeles was meant to be a beginning. It feels more like an ending. Practice was a special kind of hell today—my bandmates voted to cut my solo, called it self-indulgent. The guitar in my hands, once an extension of my soul, now feels like a borrowed instrument. I left home, crossed an ocean, severed every tie for this. Now I live on a schedule of numbness: wake, light a cigarette, face another blank page, play until my fingertips burn, lie awake regretting. The fatigue…