Tuesday, May 08, 2007
It is with every pick scrape that gradually scars my pick that I almost burst into tears for knowing love too late, and experiencing it when innocence has been lost into lust. It is with every minor chord on a drop D tuning that I hum and phantom song in hopes of restoring childlike fascination and desire to do stuff that would make the person I love happy.
I know this is getting way to pathetic.
Allegorical comparisons to love and guitar playing would always fall short so as to speak the confusion that echoes in my cerebellum right now. It falls short knowing that I am as pathetic as this thinking out loud writing symbolically so as to serve as therapy to what I feel all for the world to see in this miniscule corner in the world wide web that the tech savvy among us call a blog.