She is flat and empty, and irritation pushes against her chest like the dull edge of a knife.
At times like this it settles on her, the weight of all the words she hasn’t said, and places she hasn’t been, and people she hasn’t touched.
Her whole life is before her, but it feels like a dead end.
And it becomes too much to bear, when all she can feel is the desperation of a quiet rage deep inside, a rage that has no place to exist except the narrow confines of an annoyingly fickle heart,
then she slides into the music, injecting beats into her veins like a drug as power surges through her.
Her brain becomes a mix of lyrics, fragments of music floating like butterfly nets, catching her pain and sorrow, her boredom and her emptiness, and turning it all into a thing of beauty,
smoldering fuel for the ravenous fire of her art,
a splash of psychedelic color across the empty canvas of her imagination.