I have to get this down before I lose it.

The new Starsailor album is out this month, and I’m not sure if I’ll buy it. There’s something about the general sound of Starsailor songs that evoke an almost ineffable emotion in me. I never even knew they existed until last month, but for some reason, their 2001 Love Is Here album cover is oddly familiar. Every time I see the sun-washed tracks falling into the horizon, I get an odd sense of déjá vu.

As one who rarely has such an ephemeral, mystical experience, this strikes me as a extremely poignant thing. I feel as if I know this album, that I’ve seen it before, even had emotions associated with it. It’s something I can’t explain, and whether the emotions are good are bad, I can’t recall.

Their music moves me nonetheless. The chord progressions are unpredictable yet dulcet, bitter yet sweet. I can’t decide if it’s sunset or sunrise music, and the album cover serves to emphasize this equivocality. I can’t even tell if the music makes me happy or sad.

And so remains my problem. Do I want to listen to this music or not? I always find it odd that someone would not want to think about or experience something simply because it makes them sad. Doing so seems to be so cowardly, as if one is running from one’s self.

Yet the problem remains, with other music as well, and as clear as this logic is for me I find it difficult to queue up certain songs. Listening to The Postal Service brings back so many amazing, unforgettable memories, but so many painful thoughts as well.

I choose not to ignore either, and end up being emotionally torn, unclear in my heart and in my mind.

I took a bus ride today, not knowing where it went or how it got there. For the first two hours I felt lost, not understanding any of what I was thinking or feeling. In the last hour I almost broke down, a little clearer in my head but not much. All I found out is that I hurt, that I don’t want to get out of bed, that I don’t want to talk to people, that I need help.

I’m exhausted but I’m not tired. I must sleep but I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I wish I was strong enough to gut myself. I’d make a line across my stomach, proping myself against a wall, and try to pull my intestines out to see how far they’d stretch. I’d make a hole on the left with the tip, curved for better control, and drag to the right with the edge. To enlarge the hole, turn the knife blade facing away from you and place between your index and middle finger as a guide. I’d cut my arms open and tear out the flesh to make sure I couldn’t sow myself back together. Sometimes I just draw the lines on my stomach, mixed in with all the writing, and imagine that the coldness of my pen is the chill.

For some reason, it helps.

Sometimes, I need to cry to know I’m alive.

Nothing hurts more than knowing I’ll never talk to you again.