sickdaylife

It's last call at the hospital, you slept through it all and these four walls warn you that your surgery might not be the key to fix your memory of you and me.
doctor, i don't know what i've done. there's more to this than my ex-love and my ex-limbs could ever - in my life - begin to explain. every time i think of her and what went on that night, i don't see it - instead i hear it as a song so awful and so perfect.
doctor, i don't know what i'm going to do. i need this song to be shouted out and to be heared by everyone. it's like each word and every chord refuses to be ignored. this is bigger than me, but with no hands (and even less skill) i don't know how it ever will come out.
doctor, i think it's her i hear...it's always been. if this pain can be arranged in such a way to bring out beauty, than who am i to stop it? i'll bring her back and i won't stop until it's done...until this nightmare's undone. i need her...i need this. the saddest songs can sing themselves - we just sing along
so, if that's the answer, then the question is the trigger and i'm just a firing pin. i'm just a messenger doomed to detonate in delivery.

The song is Relapsing by Boys Night Out

I've played it so many times I'm surprised the cd hasn't worn out yet.

I've yet to figure out whether or not music is therapy for me, or just another catylyst for my insanity.

I hate nights like these. I want to feel something other than this.