I sit and stare at it. The piano. My piano.
Music flows into my ears and through my veins when I hit play on my phone. But when I look at my piano, I can’t feel it anymore.
I feel like a fraud. How dare I have this instrument when I don’t even play it. It sits sadly, silently and covered so the dust doesn’t settle too much. I take care of it, I don’t want it to get hurt. And yet, the longer I don’t play, the more I hurt.
I want to make music. I want to write a beautiful melody. I want to create something that I can’t believe I made with my own two hands and from my one and only soul.
But when I think about it and when I look at my piano… I’m like a dead battery. The life is gone.
Where did the inspiration go? How did it fade away so fast? Did I drown my own will to conquer my hopes and dreams? I’m tangled up, and yet I don’t connect with myself or the music I long to create. Where did it all go?
I’m forever inspired by the musicians I listen to. They make me want to create my own music. But as soon as I begin to think about it, it runs away. I try to feel for it, but I’ve further chased away that inspiration. I just want to know where it goes. It feels like it’s hiding away from me forever.
Maybe all I’m living for is for what others create. I’m not good enough to make my own music. I don’t know how. I don’t know where to begin. I want to be as good as them. I want to just… start. But every time I do, I fail once again and just give up. Maybe I’m not meant for that nourishment.
So I sit here in silence. Staring at my piano. Other thoughts flow through my mind. I’m alone. Is this where I want to be? I don’t really know anymore. I don’t know who I am.
Can someone remind me of who I used to be? If someone did though… I’m not sure it would mean much. It’s hard to believe in anything lately. My heart and soul have shattered into a million pieces and I’ve given up on trying to put them back together. Is there really a point to anything? I’m finding it so hard to hold onto reality.
Am I breathing? Is my heart beating? These tears roll down my face, does this mean I’m human? I look at her beautiful deep blue urn and I’m reminded we all turn to ash one day. Would it be insulting to her if I said I already feel that way?
This year has been the worst year of my life. I’m not exaggerating either. This month is going to be extremely difficult. Her birthday is coming in a few days, she would’ve been 66. Then of course mother’s day is a few days after. What do I do? How do I cope with it? There’s nothing much I can really do except feel the pain and cry. I already think about her constantly. My heart weighs a ton when I think about her.
It wasn’t how she was supposed to leave this life. It’s not fair. She deserved a better exit. She didn’t deserve to die alone. She didn’t deserve to die from her own negligence. She was so much better than that. I didn’t imagine her leaving this way. I didn’t imagine her dying alone in bed… I imagined her leaving way later in life. I imagined someone who loved her dearly to be there by her side, and hold her hand as she passed on. I imagined her at least feeling happiness towards the end. I find it hard to believe she felt happiness in the last few years. I wasn’t her though, maybe she did. I hope she didn’t leave this place feeling unloved. I hope she wasn’t struggling or hurting. I hate me for breathing without her now.
I wish I could’ve said more to her before she went away. I hope she can hear me now. I hope she knows how much I love her and how badly I miss her.
Give me a reason to believe again.
I need to know that this isn’t how it’s going to end.
Can someone remind me what this is all about?
Because I all feel is emptiness and doubt.
Give me some direction and show me the way.
Please know I never wanted to lose hope today.
In your absence, I’ll embrace the light.
Without you, I’ll never say goodbye.
One thought on “crying out for a song.”
I used to play – many years ago. People are always surprised when I happen upon a piano, or synth at gatherings of family or friends, and play a few notes of this or that. Nobody knows what muscle memory is hiding in my fingers – I’m not even sure I know any more.
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