These are the times I hate, when no one's around, and it's just me and my thoughts. And the music, of course, because that never stops, no matter what I do, after I've played it so many times my fingers bled, it just won't get out of my head.
Am I insane?
These are the times I hate, when I reach out for a hand to hold, anything to pull me back into some semblance of sanity and all that's there is empty space. And the music, too, but that only drives me closer to insanity, to the edge, closer to the rush of a fall, and then black nothing.
Am I possessed?
These are the times I hate, when I curl up and hold my hands over my ears to drown out the sound of my own cries. To drown out the music, that's trying to take me over, to possess me, to make me play it more and more and more, but no, because I've given it up, and I want it out, out of my head, out of my life.
Do I even exist?
These are the times I hate, when I'm left alone in the dark and it's enough to make me doubt everything I know. When the music creeps into my head and I hear myself sing the melody, and I feel my fingers itching for something I gave up a long time ago.
How did I get here?
These are the times I hate, when I remember how life used to be, when I sat back and watched, content to just see their laughter, their smiles. And when I gave that up for good, the music, that damn music, when he first taught me to play.
What reason do I have left?
These are the times I hate, when I want so badly to pick up the camera, but I pick up the guitar instead. When I play the music, that stupid Musetta's Waltz, because that's all Roger left behind.