NOTE: The following text was written October 2015. I am alive, kicking, and still have a few more breaths left in me.
This was a few months ago and by the safety-switch-do-anything-else mechanism, I bounced back. One can have lulls, but one can also let those lulls fashion their own shovels and dig holes so big they resemble graves, looking innocently back at the journeyman with eyes asking, "What will you make of this hole? Will you step in and rest eternally? Or will you jump over?"
Two weeks ago, in the midst of a creative upsurge, I started doubting it all; my work, my integrity, the reason for it all. I have created a sacred space where I work and create, but to what ends? I speak with less and less people and confine myself to completely arbitrary schedules but in the end only question my own sanity. If you were to ask anyone who knew me a few months ago where I was now, they would answer, "I haven’t seen Pasha in a while. I think he’s working on music or something." I wish I could appear, but not yet.
In this miasma, suicide came up again, and in a very strong way. I don’t wish to concern anyone or have this post be a veiled beacon; a cry for help. I’m only stating objectively that I weighed my options, and rationally came to the conclusion that my existence is as fleeting as a gust of wind. And if the wind were to vanish and the little boy’s kite were to fall, the park would remain a park and the duck would still quack. But then I decided to utilize the very tools I have been sharpening for the past few months. I felt ultimately alone, but I KNEW there were other people who felt the same way in that very moment. So I pulled out my notepad and started writing the first few bars of the following song -
The rest of the text was quickly written over the course of the next 48 hours and I luckily found an instrumental that had hands delicate and warm enough, motherly even, to hold such forlorn utterances.