It's the strangest, most twisted part of my existence at play, once again.
Often, like today, there are only two things on this planet that make me feel alive, conscious, and even aware of what's around me. I can get one any time I want; steel strings under the tips of my fingers, mahogany and maple cupped within the palm of my hand, but the other is almost always a traipse to get to. The times that it is easy to get within my grasp are certain to be marred by some kind of spat or misdirected words or interference at the hands of the queen of fools, or so the evidence is beginning to show.
That is not to say that I do not desire more time with the second part of what the melodramatic might describe as my life support. Had I my way, a minimum of twelve hours a day exposure to this second source of vitae would be a good starting point, even if many of those hours would be spent asleep.
Moreover, calling this source "second" belies nothing of its importance to me. I can spend all day with the metal strings in my hands with ease, but in doing so, often wish for the "second" source even more. Naming it my "first" source; the go-to, the first instinct, and the immediate cure, would be miles more than just appropriate.
Loneliness really is inexplicable.