This isn't enough anymore. Keep trying, they say, but for what?

Smashing the piano, and screaming. And that is the reality of my music now. TEARING up pages, and crying. That is the reality of my words. Silent solitude inside my heart, and trembling. That is the reality of my flight.
Who are we?-who am I?
What can you say that will make it better?- but this isn't your job and you feel trapped. I am sorry. I know those words are versatile, and seldom mean much, but they have my whole heart, if there's anything left.
I am so, so sorry you got pulled into this.
None of this is your problem.
I am not your problem.
I never was.