i'm gonna check up on the comments of this post almost obsessively, and likely endure disappointment at the lack of desirable responses, despite not knowing what i desired at all.
i'll endure the loathsome feeling of being possibly (and probably) misunderstood by people who otherwise would've had zero relevance to my life, despite the fact that there is nothing in particular to understand.
i'll endure exaggerated emotional responses to the off-hand remarks of near-strangers, only feeling worse upon recognizing my responses as maladjusted.
i'm gonna cringe at the fact that i posted some self-indulgent metablog thing, and for what?
so that the like-minded might experience mirth in commiseration? but commiseration with what? i brought this upon myself, it was not forced upon me. and what is this that i bring upon myself? some strange masochistic masturbation?
i used to want to teach the world to sing, but a part of me has always known that, even though i like the way i sing, i'm a terrible singer. somehow i get the sense the best singers aren't great ones either, because the perfect song shouldn't be too catchy or likeable or emotionally resonant (not immediately, at least, it should take a trained ear).
then i wanted to teach the world to want to sing, but that's absurd and clearly impossible. and presumptuous too.
sometimes i cringe at the voices i'm not used to, and sometimes i can tell when some songs are worthless, sung in the name of dead, false idols, sharing their sweet rotted flesh and seducing us into joining them.
but i've noticed that on average, there're more and more songs that resemble how i want to sing, even though i still suck at it. and sometimes i can even hear a bit of my own shitty voice in some good songs, and i get the hope that i might be part of the chorus that sings one of the better songs out there.
but then i try to sing again and this fucking shit comes out