I missed home today, a lot. There's a student of mine that's from the same area as me, and both of us left home at around the same time. We talked about all the places we can't wait to visit again and all the things we miss the most. Then of course, Bob Schneider pops up on the itunes singing about Austin, and that was it.

I can't wait to drive by the capital building again, or go get a cup of coffee at Spiderhouse. And Kerby Queso! Oh how I miss you.
I miss the short but seemingly long drive to San Marcos that I frequented so much. I miss 6th street in all of its glorious promiscuity and decadence. Lastly, I miss driving by my old high school as I left town and seeing how much it has changed, and yet not. I'm not one to be nostalgic over high school, but a hometown is a hometown, and I miss mine.
I miss the rumors that always circulated about how Austin was soon to be the next Hollywood. I miss the live music everywhere you go. It wasn't always good, but it was always there, and for most of us that was all we needed.
Most of all, I miss my friends. Elliott, Mark, Javier, Jordan, Marshall, Blake, Adriana, Amanda, Joy, Annalee, Josh, Brandon, and anyone who feels the need to say hey whenever they see me. I miss you all, and I have dreams about going home to see every one of you.

And lastly, there's you. The one that I write to, but I know you never read this. Most of my memories at all these places started, and in some cases ended, with you. I can't drive through Austin without thinking of you. I can pass your street without thinking of you. When I walk through my house, a random memory will pop in my head of something that happened. There's a lot of things I've been pushed to figure out in a very short time. Talking to you for the first time in months a few nights ago was unnerving. I thought I'd grown up, or maybe matured more. I thought I'd gotten over you. But there's something that happens when your voice reaches my ears, and suddenly I turn into a little high school teenager, absolutely sick with puppy love. I wish that's what it was, but puppy love shouldn't last a decade... and it has. I moved away thinking I could start fresh and not be reminded about you so much, but truth is, I don't live and breath a day that you're not in my mind. My heart still hurts, but not near as much as my memories. One of the first things that came out of your mouth was that you're worried about how I remember you...
You broke my heart. No, you destroyed me. I haven't been able to fully trust anyone in a committed relationship since you. I've sabotaged myself on so many levels. I can't describe, nor list all the after effects of our tumultuous separation. But in the end, all of that doesn't matter, because everything in the world would be set right if I was with you again.
It's not how I remember you. It's how I still feel about you. It's how I've always felt about you. I know you won't read this, but this is all for you anyway.

It seems like so many good things have happened lately...

LHS won their regional in philadelphia, Odyssey is going great and I love teaching there, G-Tech is probably going to the ACC Championships, I am officially endorsed by IP, I'm being flown out to judge a competition in New Mexico, Forte is shaping up great, and I finally feel like a musician again.

And yet tonight, as I lay down to try to sleep again, I'm haunted by something...

All of these things are great, but they would all be better if you were here with me.

This thought alone makes everything less than what it is.

I wish you were here to share this with me. I wish I could have called you and told you all of these great things. I wish that you would come home, and I would be there, beaming that everything seems to be going so well, and you would kiss me, and life would be complete again.

Life was so full back then. Back when I use to wake up, looking forward to getting to see your smile during the day. Back when every night, it was never "what am I going to do tonight," but "what are We going to do tonight."
Most of all, I miss the way you hugged me. No one was ever as perfect of a fit as you. It was like we were made for each other in every way.

But that can't be true. It never will be. Because if it were, you would be here now....



...I still hope though.

... And in a gentle breeze there blows a candle, the flame still licking strong. "You'll never blow out this little candle, the wind plays its song." The moon taunted the wind all night, who only blew harder. But still the candle burned with the wick even growing longer. Eventually though our lights will dim and the wind will get tired. Then we'll wake to the pleasant surprise of a victorious flame expired.

What it boils down to is that I've become lazy. I've lost my drive for self improvement, because really, why am I doing it? I could practice hours a day. I could write every free moment that I have, but I just don't see the point anymore. I feel like my life isn't going anywhere and my purpose here is diluted by the millions of other people doing the same thing. I'm not special here. No one is.

So I drink my coffee and fight to survive. Drive through this city every night hoping that just maybe, a thought will randomly pop into my head during a song I love and everything will make sense again. My life will have a path, and that path will gleam in golden lights with a light drizzle keeping the distance a constant surprise. Right now though, that path is dark and the color of dirt, because everyone has trodden down this path at some point. Why should I do anything different? Is there really an "Off the beaten-path" anymore? Or has it all been trampled down by all the people that have come before me?

So I eat my chocolate and fight to breath. I've thought about trying a different path lately. The idea of trying grad school in something not music has been a heavy thought. English would be a great path. It's been so long since I've been able to sit down and write creatively. I always start, then about 2 to 10 pages into it, consider it pure shit and hit the delete button. I think "no one is going to like this, so why do I write it?" And then I wonder if every great writer goes through this, or is it only the people that aspire to be great writers. I can aspire all I want, but the fact of the matter is I think my own writing is shit, so how can I expect someone else to like it?

So I sleep at night and fight for a reason. I don't sleep all that much actually. If sleeping was a skill I was graded on, that would be a class I drop. I don't know why I do this self-destructive action of depriving myself. It's pointless and the sign of what, insanity? Delusion? Depression? I lay down on my little air mattress, trying to make the blankets work and find a position that one of my arms won't fall asleep, and lay awake for minutes, hours, days.

What is it that I'm waiting for? More praise? More anger? More heartbreak more emotion more friends more life? IS there anything I'm waiting for? Or am I hear existing, and just to exist? Did I make a mistake or am I right on track? I don't think it's fate. There can't be a fate. What would be the point of living?

And that is exactly the reason why I can't sleep at night.