3 beers in. The ice-cold liquid coursed through my veins, numbing the pain that seemed to be my constant companion. The world outside the vocal booth seemed to fade away as I stepped inside, a sanctuary of sorts from the chaos that had become my life. The dim lighting created a somber atmosphere, only amplifying the heaviness in my heart. As I stood there, surrounded by padded walls, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of my situation. Here I was, a man on the brink of losing it all, screaming my lungs out into the microphone of my iPod headphones. It was ridiculous, but in that moment, it was all I had. My equipment was modest, to say the least. I didn’t have the means to connect a proper condenser mic to my phone, so I made do with what was available. Surprisingly, it felt liberating. There were no expectations, no judgments – just me, my makeshift microphone, and the music that had always been a lifeline. I chugged down another beer, feeling the familiar burn as it slid down my throat. The world seemed a little fuzzier, a little less cruel, as I listened back to my rendition of “Chop Suey.” I found solace in the raw, unapologetic energy of System Of A Down’s music. It was a reflection of the storm inside me, a release for the pent-up frustration and anger that threatened to consume me whole. With renewed determination, I pressed record again. This time, I opted for “Aerials,” another song that struck a chord deep within me. My eyes were fixed on the cheap microphone, its unassuming presence a beacon of hope amidst my depression. It was my confidant, my partner in crime, my escape from the crushing weight of reality.
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