#andrewjustin

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I fear im drowning, it won't go away. Im fine believing in people or pain If I leave now pretend I stayed Pretend I stayed #newsong #andrewjustin #singing #guitar #voice

[ivewaitedsevenyears-blog]

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A small snippet from maybe a sleeping sirens cover I did? Who knows. Second verse to with ears to see. #freesinging #sleepingwithsirens #withearstohear #singing #idiot #andrewjustin #messyhair

[ivewaitedsevenyears-blog]

A Sold Soul: Chapter 1 (An Empty House)

  February 21

I have started a journal due to the many ideas that have entered my head lately. I cannot possibly remember all of them. Perhaps this release will show me some sort of growth in this world.

                Lately I feel this overt feeling of grief and sorrow. I have not anything, and my wit, is slightly more pessimistic than the normal days I dreadfully sway from, my thoughts they swoon in the recurring daydreams. Perhaps it is because my dearest love, Olivia, has not written to me nor has she been in any contact with my ever so heavy soul since she left, so long ago. I am aware that in the place that her work has driven her, a dreadful cave of despair with dim lights, which shine only in the name of self fulfillment, there is little way to converse with my Olivia other than paper. It may sound like jealousy and even as I write down the words from my head I see something wrong, but I think that it is amazing that a woman can conjure a job at the nearby newspaper, and truly become something she can put her mind to, a persistent journalist. Every day as I pass by pictures of her in our house, and I see her outfits in the closet that we share, for we cannot afford much in the hustle and bustle of this Paris town, I am reminded of her lovely face. She has been gone so long I fear that I have to put my work in front of my face instead of the fear that something could be wrong in the unknown that inhabits her. I can feel fears ugly thorns piercing my epidermis and has ensued a viral disease of self consciousness and self loathing. There is little more to talk about on this day as my work has simplified all that I am doing lately. I currently hold about as much money as a dead man buried underneath such modern bazaars, however, the life of an artist is often a starving one, but I figure to be an artist that starves is slightly better than a poor man who starves.

  February 22

I looked into a mirror today. In a crowd of three people I failed to find the entity that matches the same name I do. And as I stood there, walking from the local coffeehouse I came to realize something, I realized that we are all like mirrors, and more importantly we are the images in the mirrors. With our eyes we see these replicas with eyes outside the body; they are eyes that figure out where we are in the world.

I came to this conclusion solely because I didn’t see myself in the mirror. I suppose I should explain before I am noted as a vampire in some freakish play, and outcasted. When I looked into the insipid mirror, I first saw myself gazing through the mirror itself, as if the object of human vanity didn’t exist, and I continued walking. As I walked now with more of my attention focused on the mirror, I saw the people ahead of me, in a vague attempt to look for myself, or at least the body I inhabited. I realized that I had gone too far to look for myself, and in an attempt I tried looking for myself in the mirror. I, however, over-calculated such a movement, and I ended up turning my sight to the bench behind, an immovable object that stuck to the solid grey cement. It caught my eye, but there was nothing remarkable about it, nothing to dwell upon. It was just as dull as the color grey itself. As I finally re evaluated my eyes in the exact direction of my mirrored image I caught the figure that is I, but no smile came across my face. Only a wondering of why I couldn’t originally find myself in the mirror.