Sometimes, I have a hard time letting shit go. I think we can all say that there is likely some wound that has a difficult time healing completely – something that just fucking bothers you forever. At least, it seems like forever. And, sometimes, I don’t have a hard time at all.

I considered myself a pretty prolific writer, some years ago. I was always writing stories, poems, lyrics, to-do lists that would never get completed, and never thought twice to share what I created with people close to me. In fact, I used to get quite discouraged by the idea that my friends were more interested in our band’s guitar solos than my brilliant use of metaphor and rhyming in my lyrics. I have since realized that most people don’t digest lyrics at all, and even sing them – for their entire lives – without ever realizing exactly what they are saying. The words just aren’t important to everyone…I get it.

I shared. I got excited by my own work, and I showed, I read aloud, I sang the words out to whoever would listen. Then, people who were supposed to be listening for enjoyment, started listening for material. A-ha! The age old problem of plagiarism! I’m an amateur, right? A nobody! Who the fuck cares if someone steals my shit? NOBODY. So, I stopped sharing. It hurt terribly to be betrayed in such a way, and I went into my shell, collecting words like dust bunnies, hidden away under the bed.

Fuck ’em.

So, here I am. Doing my best to start sharing again. Yet, I filter myself with this paranoia – “maybe they’ll see…maybe they’ll know I’m talking about them…”. I’m working on that part, still. But, here I am.

Pallo and friends are next….