The creative synapses are dulled. The spirit muffled. My energy has been drained and trouble is afoot. Weakness haunts my every step and a hungry failure snaps at my heels.

In this cold motionless recess music seems so beautiful, like a cascade of white magic wrapping itself around my consciousness, soothing my weary soul. Yet it tackles only the symptoms, the disease of the mind remains, cackling its triumph, plotting its next victory, my next downfall.

So much to do, so little will. So little time. A thousand angry faces snap through microwaves that penetrate my concrete cocoon. Slowly, ever so slowly, like the planet we all feast upon – I begin to fade.

I have fought tooth and nail to get this far, and yet here I stand, red eyed, and only at the starting line. The race is still before me. Refreshed and ambitious participants either side. You can taste the talent. A crowded graveyard lies to the rear.

As dark clouds roll over head and heavy guitar chords rain down on my unwashed hair – Too tired to shout, too tired to cry, too tired to run, too tired to write, too tired to compete, too tired to care.

I stand and watch as time marches on, dictating play. Tomorrow I am old. Tomorrow I am beyond hope. Tomorrow I am ordinary. Tomorrow I will open my eyes. Today I have failed.

Today, four years past my time, I have attained (n)emo.

Tomorrow I am eighteen again.