Hereâs the thing
Eoin Lancaster was a pretty boy with dark hair reminiscent of Gerard Wayâs drugstore bleach fuckup. The only difference was that Eoinâs blond roots were natural. The curse of his paternal bloodline: blond curls that were not at all punk rock and honey green eyes that, when left without a tight application of eyeliner, made his pretty face almost cherubic. He hid this tragic nature with bottles of black dye and handfuls of shadowed makeup, smudged to perfection for the best fuckboy effect.
Eoinâs entire existence consisted of trying to look less like his father and more like an alternative punk version of his uncle. There were too many blond, green-eyed monsters in the world. He didnât feel like being one of the many.
Raised in comfort, surrounded by everything, one might imagine that Eoinâs damage came from neglect or having too much. But that wasnât the case. Eoin thrived because of the overflowing, copious amount of love his parents and family bestowed on him from the moment his mother found out that he existed. Zealously loved, outrageously encouraged, Eoin grew up with everything and in need of absolutely nothing.
Love stories, adventures, and experiences lived by the people that raised him propelled him to discover himself in the world. Taking nothing but his own self, a pocketful of money, and a hand me down guitar, Eoin took to the trails, streets, and winding paths of the unknown. He saw, gave, and fostered love.
That is when the magic happened: he composed his first song. An ode to his mother, a salute to her twin brother, and a tip of the hat to their beloved soulmate and friend.
Because everyone in his life is so remarkably astounding, so miraculous in their nature. Eoin was only a vessel, a storyteller with no tales of his own. Heâd long ago accepted this fact. He set aside his ambition of greatness, of astonishing accomplishments, to tell the stories of those people that had filled his life with hope. Every song, every tune, every lyrical perfection was an anthem to his family or the individuals heâd met during his travels.
When asked where his inspiration came from, Eoin never failed to share the real people that had revealed and shred their essence with others through his music. When asked if any of the songs were uniquely his own⊠Well, there lies the problem, for as much as Eoin loves his family and as mch as they love him, Eoin does not truly love himself.
And there is no great reason for this. There is no dramatic or traumatic event in his past that made him dislike his own person. He simply does.
A young man such as himself, filled with love for everyone except himself, thought to put together a band while he walked the streets of London proper and his state of mind was not that quite sound.
Eoin Lancaster was a pretty boy with dark hair reminiscent of Gerard Wayâs drugstore bleach fuckup. The only difference was that Eoinâs blond roots were natural. The curse of his paternal bloodline: blond curls that were not at all punk rock and honey green eyes that, when left without a tight application of eyeliner, made his pretty face almost cherubic. He hid this tragic nature with bottles of black dye and handfuls of shadowed makeup, smudged to perfection for the best fuckboy effect.
Eoinâs entire existence consisted of trying to look less like his father and more like an alternative punk version of his uncle. There were too many blond, green-eyed monsters in the world. He didnât feel like being one of the many.
Raised in comfort, surrounded by everything, one might imagine that Eoinâs damage came from neglect or having too much. But that wasnât the case. Eoin thrived because of the overflowing, copious amount of love his parents and family bestowed on him from the moment his mother found out that he existed. Zealously loved, outrageously encouraged, Eoin grew up with everything and in need of absolutely nothing.
Love stories, adventures, and experiences lived by the people that raised him propelled him to discover himself in the world. Taking nothing but his own self, a pocketful of money, and a hand me down guitar, Eoin took to the trails, streets, and winding paths of the unknown. He saw, gave, and fostered love.
That is when the magic happened: he composed his first song. An ode to his mother, a salute to her twin brother, and a tip of the hat to their beloved soulmate and friend.
Because everyone in his life is so remarkably astounding, so miraculous in their nature. Eoin was only a vessel, a storyteller with no tales of his own. Heâd long ago accepted this fact. He set aside his ambition of greatness, of astonishing accomplishments, to tell the stories of those people that had filled his life with hope. Every song, every tune, every lyrical perfection was an anthem to his family or the individuals heâd met during his travels.
When asked where his inspiration came from, Eoin never failed to share the real people that had revealed and shred their essence with others through his music. When asked if any of the songs were uniquely his own⊠Well, there lies the problem, for as much as Eoin loves his family and as mch as they love him, Eoin does not truly love himself.
And there is no great reason for this. There is no dramatic or traumatic event in his past that made him dislike his own person. He simply does.
A young man such as himself, filled with love for everyone except himself, thought to put together a band while he walked the streets of London proper and his state of mind was not that quite sound.
