Where I Am Now

Lately, I’ve been combing through my old lyrics while updating my Music Hub — pulling out lines from the Incarrion era and holding them up against where I am now. What started as a simple archival project quickly turned into something else: a mirror. The more I compared the songs to my current writing, the more I saw a through-line I didn’t expect — certain images, ideas, and moral stances that have followed me across decades. Some have evolved, some have hardened, and some have taken on meanings I couldn’t have imagined when I first wrote them. This is what emerged.

This is the rough draft of a chapter for The Lying Years, my memoir to follow The Cancer Diet at some point. It’s shaping up to be a hell of a ride and is already sitting at 360 pages, even though it’s meant to trace the events of this year alongside essays and long-form expanded ideas.

I started by transcribing my song lyrics (there’s still more to do) and writing notes on each one — where I was at the time, what the ideas were behind it. Then I fed those into the AI the way I always do, and we discussed them. I used those past and present musings, combined with the songs themselves, to examine where I am now.

Maybe it’s pretentious and a little up my own ass, but I think I’ve said a lot with a little over the years. And if I’m being honest, I’ve come away from this process… kind of impressed with myself, in a way that’s both satisfying and a little uncomfortable.

Where I Am Now

I’ve been thinking a lot about my old lyrics lately. The ones I wrote back in the Incarrion days — all speed and shadows, water and fire, defiance and death.

It started as curiosity. I wanted to see if any of that old DNA had survived in my writing today. But as I laid the songs side by side with excerpts from The Lying Years, I realized something: not only have the themes stayed with me, they’ve matured. Sometimes subtly, sometimes in ways I barely recognized until I saw them in black and white.

“With my last breath I reach for the sky / going down I don’t wanna die” (Water)

“Two phone calls, minutes apart… That day split my life into ‘before’ and ‘after’… I’m still here, still trying.” (The Lying Years)

The paradox of chasing danger but wanting to live hasn’t left me. I just talk about it differently now — less like a dare, more like a survival strategy.

“High speed chase / Turn the corners with no thought of life” (Water)

“I get stuck… I live in loops… most of those loops aren’t built for survival.” (The Lying Years)

Back then, I framed it as motion, speed, risk. Now I see it as repetition, cycles, traps. The metaphor changed, but the unease stayed.

“Death is forever / Life’s what I choose” (This World)

“I’ve been close to that edge… But today, I’m still here. And for now, that has to count for something.” (The Lying Years)

It used to be an anthem. Now it’s a whispered truth.

“I’ll stay here, in your shadow” (ALL ALONE)

“Kate… Still part of my daily life… I’ve stopped letting all my everything hang on her shoulders.” (The Lying Years)

The attachment is still there, but it’s been rewired. What used to be a plea is now an acceptance.

“Better days that never existed” (Hit Songle)

“Living hidden feels safe until it doesn’t… You’re just building a maze you can’t escape.” (The Lying Years)

Back then, I was calling out false nostalgia in a single line. Now I pull apart how it works, the comfort and the trap of it.

This is proof of something I sometimes doubt: that I’ve always had an entrenched morality, an ethical code. Even when I’ve been reckless or cruel, even when I’ve gotten lost, the compass was there.

The biggest change isn’t in my beliefs — it’s in my acceptance. I’ve stopped pretending the bad doesn’t exist, and I’ve stopped glamorizing it. I can name it, live with it, and keep going. I’m not sure if that’s maturity or resignation, but I know it’s survival.

If I go back to making music, I can’t talk about it without talking about Nick and Christian. They were my main creative partners, and my relationship with both has shifted in ways I don’t fully understand.

With Christian, I understand more. I said some horrible things about him, told a lot of people, and he was right to divide from me. Since he’s moved back to town, I’ve made small moves toward making amends, but we haven’t hung out yet.

“We must learn how to feel something real / Or suffer without truth” (How to Feel Something Real)

“Radical honesty… means living with those truths without demanding they change.” (The Lying Years)

That lyric was written for someone else. Now it’s a rule I try to live by myself.

Nick is more complicated. We had a creative language all our own. He could be almost cruel to me in public sometimes — teaming up with Will to get under my skin, even once slamming the emergency brake while I was driving just to watch me rage. And yet, one-on-one, he was joy. I adored his music. I might have made his songs differently, but that difference was part of the magic.

When I think about how he treated me, my mind is often blank — like with my brother, or with sex. I know bad things happened. I remember flashes. But that’s the thing about abuse: it’s hard to track when you love the person. You remember their best even as you carry their worst. The fog settles in, and you start to lose track of the harm’s shape. Maybe that’s why I can still talk about how much I loved making music with him, even knowing the cost.

“Ugly heart… silent crying for everyone” (Waverly Hooves)

“Maybe I am meant to be alone forever… Maybe God doesn’t accept me.” (The Lying Years)

The self-perception hasn’t vanished, but it’s lost its costume. I don’t hide it in metaphor as much anymore.

I know I could make music with AI now. It’s not so different from the way I used my Casio back then — stacking loops and sounds until something clicked. But there’s a difference between a shortcut and a collaboration.

What I loved about making music wasn’t just the sound — it was the process of pulling something out of thin air with other people in the room, feeding off their energy. If I make music again, I want it to be built in that spirit. I want the musicianship to be strong enough to capture an idea fully, without the limitations I had back then. Not perfect — but ours.

“Everything ends / In the end” (In the End)

“This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s survival. And that’s still something.” (The Lying Years)

The acceptance is the same — but now it comes with the weight of knowing how much I’ve survived.

And maybe that’s the real “where I am now”: standing in the middle of what’s stayed the same and what’s changed, holding the past without letting it dictate the future. If I go back to music, or if I stay with the writing, the core will be the same. The compass will still point where it always has. I’ll still see the best in people, even if I’ve known their worst. I’ll still choose life, even when I’ve danced with death. And maybe that’s enough.