Thursday, November 10, 2005

Why do you type so strangely? Your fingers fly across the keyboard as if it were music, not words, that flow out of your tactful ministrations. Lighting on each key, a tap, a music of ungainly rhythm as you think of what to say, as you allow the symphony in your brain to form the delicate swirls of language.

You type the way you used to play - chaotic, running wild and untamed with cheerful disregard for the rules of fingering... free.

And at times those thin fingers, so slender and almost elegant - shaped by years of music and a lifetime of genetics - pause and rest slightly curved and perfectly poised, the tips itching to move forward in a flash of agile conversation.

The nails at the end of your fingers have grown to make you slightly clumsy; the muscles pampered by the pliability of this new musical instrument, are now weak. Somewhere in your mind you justify this gross decay with the practicality of life, of economics (which you've always hated studying and now won't have to bother with after you got your B at the 'A' levels). You promise yourself you love the music enough to sacrifice hours each week enjoying the pure delight and magic beyond all the fantasy books you read, you promise those lazy muscles that one day you'll go back to the orthodox instrument, the one you struggled (and coaxed) and loved (and hated) for a decade.

Between promising and fulfilling lies a chasm of excuses. With those hands on that new keyboard, you begin to play a serenade.

Sonata: Words in G minor.

the dead woman murmured 11/10/2005 11:45:00 PM
|

mood

Translation:
Nemo nisi mors.


the subject

utopist. dreamer. cynic. poet. a contradiction. eccentric. cartesian. a starlight in the gloom.

The patient, born in 1984, suffers from a history of idealism of unknown onset and duration.

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