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The musings of a 20-something songwriter living in LA..

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Drinking Lemon Juice out of a Broken Mug

7.15.22


I recently (as in this week) have felt fairly uninspired to write songs. A feeling I’m sure many of you have become well accustomed to. The strange element of my hiatus is that I can’t seem to stop WRITING. I can’t stop thinking of stupid goddamn poetic things at 12:15am and reaching for my way-too-bright & way-too-old iPhone to reluctantly jot it down— like it will somehow be useful to my tomorrow brain.


I’ve also happened to lose my voice in the last 48 hours which makes writing songs inevitably difficult, so I’m resorting to life’s small comforts (trader joes green tea mochi and sliced pineapple) and thinking pointlessly deeply about life. I’m not going to say I’m “lost” but it’s definitely been a weird week/month/year. I seem constantly accosted by *existential* questions like: is your career actually supposed to be the most important thing in your life? Should I be spending more time with my family? Should I be spending more time dating (I’ll come back to this, but for now I’m giving it a *heavy sigh*)— the list goes on. So I drink orange juice and I go on walks around the corner to “get my mind off things,” but it’s really to get my mind off of everything.


Although I haven’t been going into my void (if you know me you’ve seen this and if not you can guess). This is a new type of quiet confusion, one where I feel like I’m waking up after hours on social media or I’m exhausted after 10 hours of sleep. A brain fog when I’m driving to and from work and I don’t play music in the car. Is this a diary? It might be.


I’ve never been good at journaling because I don’t like to remember the ugly parts and that’s always what I seem to write down. I actually made a scrapbook, sorry “the scrapbook,” for this reason— some of you have seen it. I’m fairly proud of my poor, scrawled handwriting and the retro polaroids I’ve forced on so many of my now deemed "college friends." I started “the scrapbook” because I couldn’t remember the good parts..or any parts for that matter. I was approaching my senior year of fucking college (which is over now, don’t mention it) and I didn’t want it to go by in a blur of cheap meals and crises I couldn’t recount. So I cheated. I glazed over the rejections and the failures and the times I felt deeply sorry for myself and covered them up with stickers from the movie cars and little scribbled stars.


Am I cheating myself by only wanting to remember the good parts? Wouldn’t it be nice to just remember the parts you felt whole if you got to choose? I think I’m too young to know, but too old to not know better.


x

Karissa

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