Epik High; MYK; Lost Maps to a Lost Soul
Title: Lost Maps to a Lost Soul
Fandom: Epik High
Character: MYK
Word Count: 1165
Rating: G
Summary: MYK once wrote a blog entry about writing, or something like that, and there was this picture and this is what i thought when i saw it, and that was awhile back. This is just inspired now.
Genre: thoughtful? idk
A/N: nothing like a really good concert to get that creative blood flowing again. thanks for the spark. ♥
note: sorry if its crap, its just raw and inspired right now, and sometimes thats the best stage to be in. damn, i do not need to love him, but i think im already lost after that flow in the middle of the set last night about sleeping.
**mini disclaimer: just so you know, some of these are quotes, but im not putting quotes because it ruins it so be quiet. just so you know that i know.
I’m 25 and I feel like I’ve slept my life away.
He sits up at night, bleary eyed, running a hand over his tired face. His eyes burn and prickle red in protest but even when he closes them, nothing comes. No dreams, no inspiration, not even a passing shadow of your face, even though he used to see it every night. Every time he closed his eyes. Something has short-circuited, but he can’t find the problem because he doesn't even know where to begin. Where do you begin when it’s somewhere in your soul? How can you search through that? Soul-searching. But everything you find is always a maze, another mystery to cipher through and there aren’t any answers, just multitudes of questions. It’s like a hydra, every time you cut off a head, there’s twenty more in it’s place and you drown. Something has short-circuited, but looking for it is even more dangerous than letting it spark and fizzle somewhere hidden, looking for a way out. Maybe it’s meant to be lost.
He writes down lyrics, random words that light in his head and fade away in a cloud of smoke; quickly, quickly. He captures them all on paper, and when the sparks run out he looks it over. It’s trash. He throws it away. He sits up at night, bleary eyed, running a hand over his frustrated face. It’s been months and he’s in a pit, a soft spot in the rush of this enlightened life. A stretch of blank, of blackness, and he tries to write but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s slept his life away. The only problem is he can’t remember the dreams from it. And what’s sleep with out dreams and what’s life without dreams; and it’s another question he can’t answer.
There are too many questions.
Tukutz says that dreams don't happen when you’re asleep, they happen when you’re awake.
He thinks this is the most truth he’s heard in awhile. It would be better if he could wake up. It would be better if he could sleep. It would be better if he wasn't stuck in this awkward limbo. He watches everyone scribble on pads around him, and it’s agony. Torture because he wants to write, he wants to, and it doesn't come. The heart is willing but the body protests and his mind is torn between the two, between the beat struggling to stay alive in his heart, and the sleep that screams at his subconscious. He couldn't pick one if he tried.
He picks up his guitar. He puts it down. This sucks.
He picks up his guitar and he sits with it in his lap, waiting for something. His stomach jumps and he almost wants to cry in frustration. It’s like he can’t even move and if you aren’t moving you aren’t moving anyone. He wants to move. He wants to move people. He wants to start a movement. And he isn’t going anywhere.
He’s been in this house for what, five, six, nine days or so without leaving. He steps outside on his small balcony with a cup of coffee in the morning. The breeze kisses his face and it's the most contact he has in a day. He keeps the window open but she doesn't come in and he only comes out in the morning. He wishes she would visit him in here, a breath of fresh air, but he isn’t even sure he’s talking about the breeze anymore.
He’s waited his whole life for this chance. And here it is, dropped straight in his lap, an opportunity that is almost laughable that it even happened. He can’t even believe it sometimes. He thinks-in a sick sort of feeling in his mind-what happens when he wakes up?, but then he remembers that he can’t sleep, so at least it isn’t a dream. I think. But that’s what it is, it’s his dream, and it's the best, easiest, most destined path to this dream that he’s wanted for so long. So long. 25 years of a dream. A sleep that stretched and birthed this destiny in the R.E.M. cycle of his subconscious. And yet he’s worked so hard to get here. So why can’t he think back to the times he felt awake, the times he gripped a pencil and stared at the wall, afraid to put it down because in a second, a second, third, seventeenth wave comes again and where is that damn piece of paper.
He’s waited for this chance and if he blows it, sleeps through it, he’s going to….-
-And the thought isn’t finished because nothing’s finished yet. Broken lines on scraps of magazines, half-opened envelopes, pads of paper nicked from hotel rooms, wrappers, backs of newspaper clippings, proper pads of paper, marker on skin and cellophane and the bottom of coasters when there wasn't anything close to hand or all that was near was more lyrics that were too precious to scrawl over.
The creative process.
The creative slump.
The creation birthed from both. That's it, that's what he’s in. Labor. The labor of making something so important, so perfect, so raw, with such emotion and truth and life and pulse to it-and the pressure of performing. It’s suffocating, and he’s suffocating. He feels like it’s in there somewhere, and he wants it out. He wants to see it on paper, see it in rhymes, see it on the sleeve of a demo. Off his tongue and onto a CD.
It’s taking forever to get there.
There’s a clock on the wall. It’s digital.
He thinks that no one takes time to tell time anymore.
Sometimes it makes him want to cry. He moves his thumb and only then does he remember that there’s a guitar in his lap. It startles him a little and then he’s laughing, laughing at himself and the over-sized hull of wood just sitting in his lap. What is he doing. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he’s doing here and he doesn't know what he’s supposed to be doing here. He doesn't know what’s going to happen. There’s a jump of nerves somewhere in his stomach but he doesn't notice because it’s six in the morning and he’s laughing.
He walks out onto the balcony and laughs just a little bit more. When he stops, there’s a stupid smile stretched across his face and it feels so good. The breeze brushes by in the dim, grayish-gold rising light and stops, happy to see him again. She sits by him and kisses his cheek just like always. He says hi. He leans on the balcony, arms resting on the wrought iron railing and he smiles, looking out and it’s like Jeju all over again. In fact, he can’t really tell the difference. His smile is so wide.
He goes back inside and he writes. It may be crap later, but it’s something.
MYK writes.
Fandom: Epik High
Character: MYK
Word Count: 1165
Rating: G
Summary: MYK once wrote a blog entry about writing, or something like that, and there was this picture and this is what i thought when i saw it, and that was awhile back. This is just inspired now.
Genre: thoughtful? idk
A/N: nothing like a really good concert to get that creative blood flowing again. thanks for the spark. ♥
note: sorry if its crap, its just raw and inspired right now, and sometimes thats the best stage to be in. damn, i do not need to love him, but i think im already lost after that flow in the middle of the set last night about sleeping.
**mini disclaimer: just so you know, some of these are quotes, but im not putting quotes because it ruins it so be quiet. just so you know that i know.
I’m 25 and I feel like I’ve slept my life away.
He sits up at night, bleary eyed, running a hand over his tired face. His eyes burn and prickle red in protest but even when he closes them, nothing comes. No dreams, no inspiration, not even a passing shadow of your face, even though he used to see it every night. Every time he closed his eyes. Something has short-circuited, but he can’t find the problem because he doesn't even know where to begin. Where do you begin when it’s somewhere in your soul? How can you search through that? Soul-searching. But everything you find is always a maze, another mystery to cipher through and there aren’t any answers, just multitudes of questions. It’s like a hydra, every time you cut off a head, there’s twenty more in it’s place and you drown. Something has short-circuited, but looking for it is even more dangerous than letting it spark and fizzle somewhere hidden, looking for a way out. Maybe it’s meant to be lost.
He writes down lyrics, random words that light in his head and fade away in a cloud of smoke; quickly, quickly. He captures them all on paper, and when the sparks run out he looks it over. It’s trash. He throws it away. He sits up at night, bleary eyed, running a hand over his frustrated face. It’s been months and he’s in a pit, a soft spot in the rush of this enlightened life. A stretch of blank, of blackness, and he tries to write but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s slept his life away. The only problem is he can’t remember the dreams from it. And what’s sleep with out dreams and what’s life without dreams; and it’s another question he can’t answer.
There are too many questions.
Tukutz says that dreams don't happen when you’re asleep, they happen when you’re awake.
He thinks this is the most truth he’s heard in awhile. It would be better if he could wake up. It would be better if he could sleep. It would be better if he wasn't stuck in this awkward limbo. He watches everyone scribble on pads around him, and it’s agony. Torture because he wants to write, he wants to, and it doesn't come. The heart is willing but the body protests and his mind is torn between the two, between the beat struggling to stay alive in his heart, and the sleep that screams at his subconscious. He couldn't pick one if he tried.
He picks up his guitar. He puts it down. This sucks.
He picks up his guitar and he sits with it in his lap, waiting for something. His stomach jumps and he almost wants to cry in frustration. It’s like he can’t even move and if you aren’t moving you aren’t moving anyone. He wants to move. He wants to move people. He wants to start a movement. And he isn’t going anywhere.
He’s been in this house for what, five, six, nine days or so without leaving. He steps outside on his small balcony with a cup of coffee in the morning. The breeze kisses his face and it's the most contact he has in a day. He keeps the window open but she doesn't come in and he only comes out in the morning. He wishes she would visit him in here, a breath of fresh air, but he isn’t even sure he’s talking about the breeze anymore.
He’s waited his whole life for this chance. And here it is, dropped straight in his lap, an opportunity that is almost laughable that it even happened. He can’t even believe it sometimes. He thinks-in a sick sort of feeling in his mind-what happens when he wakes up?, but then he remembers that he can’t sleep, so at least it isn’t a dream. I think. But that’s what it is, it’s his dream, and it's the best, easiest, most destined path to this dream that he’s wanted for so long. So long. 25 years of a dream. A sleep that stretched and birthed this destiny in the R.E.M. cycle of his subconscious. And yet he’s worked so hard to get here. So why can’t he think back to the times he felt awake, the times he gripped a pencil and stared at the wall, afraid to put it down because in a second, a second, third, seventeenth wave comes again and where is that damn piece of paper.
He’s waited for this chance and if he blows it, sleeps through it, he’s going to….-
-And the thought isn’t finished because nothing’s finished yet. Broken lines on scraps of magazines, half-opened envelopes, pads of paper nicked from hotel rooms, wrappers, backs of newspaper clippings, proper pads of paper, marker on skin and cellophane and the bottom of coasters when there wasn't anything close to hand or all that was near was more lyrics that were too precious to scrawl over.
The creative process.
The creative slump.
The creation birthed from both. That's it, that's what he’s in. Labor. The labor of making something so important, so perfect, so raw, with such emotion and truth and life and pulse to it-and the pressure of performing. It’s suffocating, and he’s suffocating. He feels like it’s in there somewhere, and he wants it out. He wants to see it on paper, see it in rhymes, see it on the sleeve of a demo. Off his tongue and onto a CD.
It’s taking forever to get there.
There’s a clock on the wall. It’s digital.
He thinks that no one takes time to tell time anymore.
Sometimes it makes him want to cry. He moves his thumb and only then does he remember that there’s a guitar in his lap. It startles him a little and then he’s laughing, laughing at himself and the over-sized hull of wood just sitting in his lap. What is he doing. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he’s doing here and he doesn't know what he’s supposed to be doing here. He doesn't know what’s going to happen. There’s a jump of nerves somewhere in his stomach but he doesn't notice because it’s six in the morning and he’s laughing.
He walks out onto the balcony and laughs just a little bit more. When he stops, there’s a stupid smile stretched across his face and it feels so good. The breeze brushes by in the dim, grayish-gold rising light and stops, happy to see him again. She sits by him and kisses his cheek just like always. He says hi. He leans on the balcony, arms resting on the wrought iron railing and he smiles, looking out and it’s like Jeju all over again. In fact, he can’t really tell the difference. His smile is so wide.
He goes back inside and he writes. It may be crap later, but it’s something.
MYK writes.