A heart so heavy it could be made of stone

Please tell me what to do so I can atone

For all the things I haven't done yet

For all the wrongs that I will set

I'm stuck in this tomb

As you lick at my wound

We'll shake the dead until they wake up

What I've learned from suffering

Tried to spin it to gold

Dastardly wishes, foreclosed and then sold

The threads kept on snapping

While you kept on clapping

Would you shoulder these sins for me?

Spinning and twirling, I'm out on a limb

No matter what, I can never win

So all that I've learned

Nothing is as it seems

All shattered fragments

Crushed up broken dreams

Strapped to my regret

I think we are set

Let's double down on this here bet

So maybe on the rainy days

You and me can part our ways

There is no cure for what I have

Trust me I've tried to find the stave

Crosses burn and leave me in sin

My heart isn't heavy, made from tin

Don't worry, I'm just slowing losing control

Don't worry, I never really paid the toll

So I'll strap you down, act as though I care

When all that I want is to lick your chair

That's electric

My emotions are eclectic

Not looking to be saved

Long ago I caved

Not looking for pity

There's just a spring deep down in this levy

And maybe I'll plug it

Or maybe I won't

Not once have you begged at me, don't

And maybe I'll drown

Finally finding my lown

Happily sinking into the down

Maybe one more day will bring me something I need

Maybe one more day so I can sow my seed

Maybe one more day to bring me something I'm not

Sitting alone, I'll be king of this cot

Maybe one more day, an attempt to fix me

Maybe one more day, you can still trick me

Maybe one more day to count down 'til I die

Maybe one more day to sing a sweet lullaby

And I won't let you in

You're not really my kin

I'll just bite you

And you will see true

Everyone's useless

Everyone's worthless

All the world is simply mirthless

You must think that I'm despondent

Whispers you heard from that correspondent

You must think I'm really pathetic

I need to believe this Hell isn't static

I live my life as if I'm irredeemable

You look at me like the pathetic incorrigible

I heard the whispers that I'm irreversible

Everyone can be hollow and hopeless sometimes

Everyone can find themselves placed in confines

This is not the best place to find me

This is just the best place to find tragedy

A warning, this gun pointed at my head

The strong storm is billowing in, they said

No matter what I do, I can never win

So toss me away, into this dirty bin

Wash of me your memories for free

It was all just pointless cackling glee

So come at me now, rid me of pain

For some days I fear I will never be sane

Behead me now while I'm down on one knee

This all makes sense when you're the pointless me

I look down at the lyrics I've written and frown. Besides the lyrics I wrote for Tristan, I can't remember the last time I wrote lyrics. They feel wrong, contrived. I feel like I'm just writing for the sake of writing. I hate that I made everything rhyme. Frustrated, I tear the page out of the spiral notebook, crumple the page, and toss it to the floor. It joins at least a dozen other balls of paper.

"Come on," I grunt in annoyance with myself.

Even so, writing feels wrong. It feels hollow. I feel like there's no heart to it. Which is why I'm trying to figure out when the last time I wrote was. What propelled me to write? Maybe if I can capture that feeling again, the words will come to me naturally.

Finally a memory comes to me. Slowly but surely it unfolds in my head. It was our last tour; I was writing on the bus. I was absolutely miserable. Ben and Jake tried to hide it from me, but by that point we were all fucking miserable. The fact that we all agreed to add the song 'I Will Play My Game Beneath Spin Lights' by the band Brand New to our setlist should have really said something. It became our closing song, every night.

Frowning and tapping the eraser of my pencil against the notebook repeatedly, I decided I didn't want to get into that headspace. Yet I worried about that. This new me...This one I was trying to foster, an Orion Bauwens that was a little bit less of an ungodly mess. An Orion who acted his age (to an extent), who acted like an adult. Was that version of me a capable musician?

Feeling on the edge of a panic attack, I pulled out my cell phone and brought up my contacts.

"Hello, Orion!" Scott's cheery voice was like a weighted blanket to my mind.

"H-hey."

"What's up?" he asked me, and I didn't miss the hint of worry on account of my stuttering.

"I can't write."

There's a drawn out pause. "What do you mean you can't write?"

"Lyrics," I explain. "I've been trying for hours, and everything I produce is crap."

Scott, to my slight annoyance, laughs at me. "Is it actually bullocks, or are you just being too hard on yourself?"

"I don't know," I say, and I hate that it came out as a somewhat high-pitched whine.

Another, shorter, pause. "Do you need to breathe?"

I give the nervous laugh that I hate so much. "P-probably."

"Have you taken your anxiety meds?"

"N-no."

"How about you go do that, and then comes back to me, alright?"

"S-sure."

That's exactly what I do. When I come back, Scott continues. "Are you on any meds that help your anxiety over-all, or do you just have a fast acting script when you need it?"

"Um," I reply, trying not to shake. "I--I d'no to be honest?"

"And let me guess," Scott says, a bit of annoyance lacing his words. "You haven't been up front with your psychiatrist about how bad your anxiety is, have you?"

I give my nervous laugh again.

Scott sighs. "Alright, mate, when I'm off the phone with you, you're going to call up your psychiatrist and leave a message that you want to talk about possibly adding something for your anxiety, okay?"

I nod, even though he can't see it. "Y-yeah."

"So why do you think you can't write?" he asks me gently.

"I d'no," I tell him desperately. "Everything I've ever written has always b-been a sort of release valve. It-it's always been a way to deal with upsetting emotions."

"Alright."

"I feel better," I admit. "Not cured, but I feel like for the first time I have a pretty good grip on life. Do you think, maybe, I'm incapable of writing lyrics if I'm not a depressed, suicidal mess?"

There's a pause, and I can hear Scott try to stifle a laugh. "Look, mate. I know you've felt a certain way for a long, long time. I know you think that your depression and issues are entwined with you as a human being. While that might be true to an extent, I don't think it's the part that was writing lyrics."

I screw up my face. "Scott--I know you don't like rock, but have you actually listened to my stuff? It's depressing A.F."

My friend laughs. "I have. I know you use lyric writing to process your baggage. But who's to say you can't do the same, just with a more objective lens?"

"Because it doesn't feel right."

"Why do you think that is?"

I think for a moment. "Because my life is so different now."

"How so? Explain it to me."

"I'm happier," I say.

"That's a plus."

"The thought of alcohol disgusts me and who I become when I drink it."

"Kudos to you!" Scott says sincerely. "What else?"

"Uh..."

"Is your house different?"

"No."

"You texted me saying you patched things up with Jacob, right?"

"Yeah," I say, and I can't help the smile that comes to my face immediately.

"So...then what?"

And it dawns on me, and I feel stupid I didn't realize it sooner. I take off my glasses and set them on my coffee table, pinching the bridge of my nose. I lean my elbow on my leg and shut my eyes. "It's Tris."

"Ah."

I fling myself back, looking up at the ceiling in annoyance. "You knew that all along, didn't you?"

"I think you think, without Tris in your life, that you'll never truly be happy again. And if you're not happy, and if you're not depressed, what emotions do you feel?"

I don't say anything for a long while.

"Orion? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I tell him.

"So, what do you feel, then?"

"I d'no," I admit, and I'm glad he can't see the tears gathering in my eyes because I still miss Tristan so damn much.

"As with any art form, there has to be feeling behind it, emotion." Scott pauses. "You have to find something to make you feel passionate. And I'll be damned if I watch you slip into a depression willingly just so you can write."

I can't help but laugh. "No, I wouldn't do that."

"Yes, you would," he tells me, and honestly that surprises me. "And I swear to God, if I think you're doing that, I'm going to move in with you and make sure you take care of your damn self."

I shake my head. "Why in the fuck do you care so much about me, Scott?"

"I see a lot of myself in you. If I can save you, then maybe I can save myself. Goodnight, Orion."

The call beeps, signaling he's hung up on me. For a long while I just stare at my phone, shocked at that moment of raw honesty Scott has given me.