petals

This is one example something that I will work on forever, and never be completely satisfied with. My metaphor isn’t developed… My diction is funny… I can’t keep the rhythm I’m going for… etc etc etc. Too bad I actually needed it for a program at school, and the deadline has long since passed.

Unfortunately, I have decided that I am most certainly not a writer. I simply am physically, mentally, and emotionally incapable of producing a piece of work I find even the mildest satisfaction in. Being a musician is unsettling enough as it is, and I don’t know that I could handle that kind of frustration on both ends of the spectrum. Besides, I can’t find the writing journal I kept for so long.

So now, instead of a masterpiece, a piece d’resitance, you are left with something half baked, *cheesy*, unfinished, undeveloped, open-ended.

Enjoy. 🙂

* * *

She straightens out her plain cotton skirt as she sits down quietly at her piano. “No, mama, leave the light off,” she says. Though the sun is getting low, there is something in the way the slanted soft beams of light fall onto her music that soothes and energizes her all at once. “So here I am again,” she thinks, running her fingers along the keyboard, gently caressing the ivory, afraid it were to break as she quietly meditates on the piece she is about to play. She raises her hands, hovering above the keyboard like seagulls along a beach, and… Now. Her hands dive toward the shore, to the keys, to dance wildly up and down the coast; the softness of ivory and the smoothness of wet sand the same to her touch. She closes her eyes, the soft colors and slanted sunbeams surrounding her are carefully replaced by a heavy and bold brightness, a hard blackness beneath her feet, a magnificent instrument before her, empowering her every whim. A grand stage melds with dark sand as it makes itself known to her mind’s eye. Even if she had taken the moment to recognize the vast audience attentive to her every move, all with sequined and pressed clothes sparkling, indistinguishable from moonbeams on a rippling ocean, she wouldn’t have been able to make them out past the glaring lights that said it was still daytime on stage. She plays, and she plays, never letting up from what she has a hold on. Through the daylight of the stage lights rains on her a downpour of unerring emotion and intensity filling her to her top- a glass of lemonade bursting at the brim, threatening to overflow; but she laughs as she spills onto the beach, pours into the ocean, and lets loose of all things known into her music. “No one goes home thirsty tonight,” she whispers to herself. “Not a single one,” she says as she carefully opens her eyes. And all at once, as sweetly as it once resonated, the room fell silent again. The black stage washed away underfoot and gave way to a brown carpet, the stage lights transformed into the soft light of dusk, the admiration of an audience fading to sounds of an ocean from an open window. “Oh, sweet as my daughter,” her mother remarks lightly from a chair in the corner of the room as she sips on a glass of lemonade, but the girl does not hear her. Instead, she sighs a sigh of deliverance and leans back into her chair. She straightens her plain cotton skirt, now wrinkled.

(After “Interior with Girl at Clavier”,Vilhelm Hammershoi)