At first it just was.
It was just music.
I was just me.
We all just were.
I sat and played,
music was my life.
Each note was me.
I placed myself
into every chord,
every measure,
every song.
I didn't notice,
not a first.
Change was slow;
snail-like or turtle.
I spent more time
in musical dreams,
than I did in reality.
The actuality of it
never grasped me.
I sat upon my place,
This piano bench;
it had become my home.
I sought to write
a masterpiece.
I'd not leave...
Not until I finished.
My fingers flailed
upon these keys.
Black and white-
all I'd come to know.
The notes flowed
smoothly with grace.
In a happening so
very much at once.
I faded off and away;
out into oblivion.
I was the music.
Pieces of me
danced about.
Spinning, singing.
Drifting away;
away from myself.
Becoming another,
different being.
The music still rang;
fueled by my being.
My masterpiece
still rang aloud.
It was finishing itself,
through the use of me.
I was my music.
At last it was done;
I was finished.
All that remained
was sheet-music.
My air-born music
crumbled like ash.
All I could be,
was what was left;
sheet-music.
Until someone played
and set me free.
I was trapped.
Forever in the chords.
'
Adding your comment:
~Pt
I like the quote!)
