found [a box of sharp objects], what a beautiful thing!
The only proper way to eliminate bad habits is to replace them with good ones.
This exact piece of advice is what plagued Michael's thoughts for years until he finally found a habit good enough to keep up—a habit good enough to become his entire life. And, if you were able to figure out what it was, well; it's not that difficult in the first place.
Performing has always given Michael the rush needed to calm himself. Even if it's in front of fancy adults who, if he ever said a word to them, would make him feel like shit for how put together their life is (but put together is never how Michael attempted to be anyway).
When Michael found music, that was the only thing he needed. It's all he ever will need. For the longest time, it was the only thing there that he could tolerate enough to listen to. He didn't want to listen to his friends, or his family, or the fucking news—God, he hates the news.
He remembers the day he realized what music could do, how powerful it was; remembers the way it made him feel. And, of course, Michael had always been into music. He listened to it every day. But, the exact moment that he immersed himself in the world of it was when everything had changed.
The feeling was different for everyone, yet so universal. It was such a connecting element and one of the only things that possesses more power and more importance than any religion or system of government. It is more important than Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.
The formation of Upon Kerosene was one of the best decisions Michael ever made—if not the best. Any time he needed to relieve stress, all it took was the closest form of stationery to have him spending hours writing out his feelings.
The first song he ever wrote for the band, the first song he ever wrote at all, was called Maybe Memories. He's still got the original paper it was written on; scribbles and doodles and all. How could he not keep it? That was his first song. It was the song that gave him the opportunity to finally say that he had something that he belonged to. Michael has never felt more at peace than he has in the presence of the music notes floating gracefully through every aspect of his being.
Never have been one to write it down / now I think I can / I know I'm stronger now
Music was the good habit. What was the bad?
For the longest time Michael never thought he had one—which sounds ridiculous when he thinks about it now, because everyone has a bad habit or two, or three, and they may even be the most miniscule of things but they're still not good.
Some may say he knew all along and he was simply in denial, but that's not who Michael was—not who Michael is. This was something that he genuinely believed everyone did, he didn't know it was considered bad. But maybe that was a sign telling him that the alcohol that had once ran a river down his throat now threatened tsunamis through his judgment.
He managed to hide. And to this day he is still not sure how he got away with it. How his sunken eyes hadn't looked even the slightest out of character for a usually bright and lively guy. His normally pale complexion over time became a vague, sickly gray.
Michael tapped on Calum's shoulder and asked, "Is Luke here?"
"Don't know," his best friend shrugged. "Haven't looked for him."
