Another new song

Through my entire life as a songwriter there has always been one conversation that I continually struggle with. Now, first of all you must know that I “suffer” from depression. I have for years (whether real or imaginary is a whole other conversation). I’ve taken medication for it for many years and my songs, some will say, have suffered for it. But with the meds I have suppressed the demons enough to get along in my day-to-day without throwing in the towel. It also means that I may not FEEL as deeply about things that are important to me. Maybe I am a little more forgiving. Maybe a little more accepting of the cards in which I was dealt. I am in absolutely NO place to complain about my life though. I have my health, a supportive husband, a great little boy. I pay the bills (or try), I have a creative outlet that brings me joy. Or sometimes pain – either way songwriting, singing and performing gives me something necessary for making sense of this world. And that’s what I’m talking about.

The conversation about who is special is something i struggle with. With or without the meds. Who is special? As in “If everyone is special then noone truly is”. As in if you’re famous – your special. As in if “they” know your face, you are a “star”. That is the conversation that keeps me up at night – but one that is very taboo to write about. Because it’s a bit like feeling sorry for yourself, OK not just a bit. But so what? Why does anyone want to be a star, or a superstar? To feel special.

So here is a very unapologetic, self indulgent, bitter song that actually made me feel a little better after writing it. I’m never sure if I should share these kinds of songs with the world – or if I absolutely SHOULD share these songs. Just for a little insight into a old bitter musician who went off her meds. ENJOY!

You can listen here http://www.girlmuse.com/listen.html
I Faded Out by Lydia Brownfield

I faded out
The glass was painted so thin
And the fortunes fill the hands of only the special
blowing in the wind
Leaving us to fend.

An image on my wall
frozen there in fear
A light may shine but not seen now
It’s pretty dark in here
It’s pretty dark in here.

No glorious thunderous fire
Or waving victorious flags
No bbq’s or stories passed down
for our children’s muse
for our children’s children’s muse

There’s no real defeat
in a languid century lie
Where the envious kill and curl their watering mouths
and turn into a smile
though empty and hollow disguised.

No glorious thunderous fire
Or waving victorious flags
No bbq’s or stories passed down
for our children’s muse
for our children’s children’s muse.

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~ by Lydia on July 1, 2009.