Day 34

I wish I could play piano.
Not for concerts, nor recitals. Not even to be that good at it.
Just to have that thing that all those shitty shows cut back to when our misunderstood protagonist is brooding.
One of the other characters happen upon him and gleans some insight; a crack in the well kept facade...
But I'm not a misunderstood protagonist and I don't play piano and I'm not overly fond of people feeling like they have to spy on me to figure me out.
I'm me. And the me I am does not play piano.
Oh, I'll listen. I'll listen till my ears bleed.
The warm up - tickle those ivories gentlemen. One chord. Two chords. Three chords. Four. Build. Plateau. Fade... until ... notes.
One after another and another, some familiar re-visitations, but always moving. Movement keeps the pulse of the piece alive- Lifted up above the former place it once thought high. Higher still! Still the thrill will be always moving upward as if we are the rim to the drain and the sky is where we truly fall. Flying becomes falling, just the other way. And the rain in the clouds not yet formed is vibrating from the building crescendo in my ears-in my bones in my body, throughout me and I shake like the rings in the water. The still surface that was me ripples with tiny rings, because now I am the lake. I'm the pond. I dip my toe not into it but into myself, because there never was a pond. No pool. No page. No blank slate to be made into infinite possibilities only me.
Me and my infinite possibilities. Was this the fear. The hesitation. All this time, circling not a lump of clay, procrastinating the first hack- not a canvas but a mirror. And in it's reflective pure white surface- like liquid marble- pure white light of the happy open child that was always me. Looking right back at myself.
As I was. What I was, is what I still am?
...
And in a moment that swings between dream and wake. The lucid dream that I have acclimatized myself into, brings me to the conclusion that I am not so much living my best life as I am merely experiencing it. The greiver becomes a witness to grief. For that is how deep within the pond I've fallen. How far the little pebble of myself I've thrown can go.
I am not scared to drown. I cannot drown down here. I fear only that I shall find no need for breath.
In this warmth. This safety. This: where I came from after all. Floating in the essence of untapped potential and eternities of what could one day be.
It's safer here. Freer here. I am the pool, the pool is me and all my anxieties rooted to silly things like gravity, time, and direction fade. Form and thought are no longer contradictions, but rather brothers. One and the same.
Thought breeds form, and light is the true shadow of shape. Not the other way round. This cough, this sickness, is only a distraction. Only further evidence *cough* that I am getting closer *cough* *cough*
ever closer. Utill ...
...
Break the surface.
Take a breath.
Take another ...
Writing while ill can be - interesting to say the least.