Tuscany, Italy.

Finally getting my photography groove back on. It feels really good to do this for pleasure.

I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.

If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them.

Sometimes I beat myself up that I’m not good enough, that I don’t play a piece well enough, that I’ll never write anything half good enough.

Just as often I have to remind myself to not only be a better musician, but have a better outlook. I have fans, I can play music and I can bring joy. That’s surely a start.