Missing Notes

Somewhere along my whole "jumping over the moon" timeline, I realized that there was a part of my story that I was missing. I had avoided it for so long, but I couldn't bring myself to writing it.

Saying it makes it real.

Obviously, not everything in the story I've been writing is real. But the more time I've dedicated to this book, the more I realize that it has turned from "just this thing I did" into another expression of myself. Typically, in heightened moments of emotion, I play the piano; pounding out all my unexpressed feelings (yes, I have feelings) until it came out in the form of notes and chords and strange melodies. Who knew that 88 black and white keys could offer so much freedom?

I tried looking for a piano, but I found none with which I could let myself be free. I have become too apprehensive during my time without playing, and I end up sitting at the piano bench reminiscing of an easier time when the music came naturally to me. I used to be so good, at least that's what I remember. And now I can barely put together an entire song. It saddens me, to a large extent, and I wonder if I had passed my prime and had been far too long since I had reached my musical peak. The piano, this wooden box, no longer offered a refuge for me.

My life sans piano has been a struggle. Without the music, the only way I express myself is through writing. And I think I've avoided it for far too long. I know what I have to write, and I find myself afraid of the truth it may reveal. What happened doesn't bother me any more. Telling the story does. And I struggle through this exercise in hopes that maybe when I tell my story I wouldn't only be retelling it...

...and not reliving it.

It was easier with the piano.

Currently watching : The X-Files - The Complete Fourth Season (Slim Set)