Failed Revolution

Her raw voice haunts my mind – a voice of uncertainty – frustration – desperation – uncontrollable spiraling – a voice of an overwhelming sense of familiarity.

Gritty guitars and harsh drums with meticulously calculated pauses floods my ears and I easily find myself becoming entranced, but the cries of the guitar breaks my train of thought.

A sound sonically reproducing the anguishes of my soul – of the desperation, obsession, and the search for beauty and power. A sound of rage and contempt, directed both at the world and at myself, a heart-rending sound that fills my chest with anxiety and the need to move.

“But if I gave up on being pretty, I wouldn’t know how to be alive. I should move to a brand new city and teach myself how to die,” followed by a blood-curdling scream – a cathartic scream.

It ends abruptly – a failed revolution on womanhood. The height of a revelation, scorned by reality, followed by silence; a dying idea, hit with the final blow. It still leaves me empty and rotting, searching for that something that will arouse an unawakened temper.

A martyr for womanhood, killed by reality, she lives on in my heart – never gone, never forgotten. Her raw voice haunts my mind – crying for the need to cause destruction, the need to scream, the need for power, the need to start an inner revolution.