DYNAMICS
Once upon a time, someone taught us the alphabet, its sounds, its exceptions, its potential patterns, creating a rhythm we no long know, but allow our eyes to remember for us, as they play an unconscious beat on the invisible ear drum. And we write, letting our hand go limp in the leading arms of a thought in a forgotten dance. And so we learn a piece of music, black dots with tails sticking up and down, climbing and falling in the identical rows of white space that translate into finger movements.
And then we forget. We sit at the cold black piano bench and trace our fingers over the keys, looking for just that note, that chord, the one that will trigger a forgotten lullaby that only our fingers know. Then we race on, for a pause would mean a thought, and a thought is not what has been forgotten. It would corrupt the spirit of a piece truly coming from within, would hit the wrong note and damage the music thoroughly, raggedly sawing through it at the crescendo.
A mind and its wrong notes can undo a soul.
And then we forget. We sit at the cold black piano bench and trace our fingers over the keys, looking for just that note, that chord, the one that will trigger a forgotten lullaby that only our fingers know. Then we race on, for a pause would mean a thought, and a thought is not what has been forgotten. It would corrupt the spirit of a piece truly coming from within, would hit the wrong note and damage the music thoroughly, raggedly sawing through it at the crescendo.
A mind and its wrong notes can undo a soul.