The long way down

(Slow, quiet guitar. No drums yet.)

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for a thousand years or maybe just an hour, watching the plaster crack like a map of this damn city. Everybody’s got an opinion on how I should have handled the crash, how I should have tucked my chin and closed my eyes and waited for the impact to hit me, but they weren't the ones behind the glass. They didn't see the way it played out, the way I broke down. I’m tired of the quiet conversations in the kitchen. I’m tired of the way people look at me like I’m never gonna make it out. I’ve got a suitcase full of stones and a head full of static, and I’m starting to think that the only way to get clean is to get loud.

(Section 2: The Shift)

(Drums kick in. Bass gets heavy.)

Now the neighbors are waking up because I’m dragging the furniture across the floor. I’m opening the windows to let the winter in because I need to feel the cold. There’s a logic to the madness that they don’t teach you in school—a way to breathe when the air is gone. I’m not waiting for a sign. I’m not waiting for an apology. I’m walking through the front door with my eyes wide open and my hands shaking. Every step is a heavy thud, every breath is a jagged line, and the streetlights are flickering like they know I’m coming.

(Section 3: The Peak)

(Total chaos. Loud guitars..)

I am not the memory! I am not the mistake!

I’m the sound of the wave before it starts to break!

Don't tell me to calm down!

Don't tell me to wait!

I’ve been waiting my whole life at the edge of the gate!

And now it’s open!

And now I’m running!

Can you hear it?

Can you feel it?

It’s the end of the silence!

It’s the end of the dark.

(Section 4: The Outro)

(Suddenly quiet. Just a ringing feedback noise.)

And there it is.

The long way down.

I’m still breathing.

But the air feels different now.