I am trespassing.
It's a strange feeling, in a place so familiarly unfamiliar, the nagging feeling that I don't belong.
Like the house of your childhood, where you lost your teeth and your training wheels, returning with nostalgia, only to see someone else's bike in the garage.
Or even worse, it's empty. The shadow of a home. Peering in the dusty windows, hoping for a sign of life.
The hardest roads we have to walk alone//
I flip through the archives, they stare back at me like an old photo album. Memories of a girl.
Memories of a voice.
It's strange to see myself a stranger… to be inspired by words that I once claimed as my own. To be moved.
Even stranger still, as that bellowing baritone became more muffled, so did everything else.
That baritone was my metronome.
Though deep down I believe: you can't lose it if it was ever truly yours, it never goes away. It's always home, the cozy spot, tucked away in the trees, where daydreams and fantasies take afternoon tea.
Everyone has their vices.
Vice, voice, virtue.
Truth be told- I'm a little rusty.
I know, I know//