That old piano from 1956.
No, please, don't take that. Stop. -he shouted in dreams.
Then finally awaken, relieved it was just a dream, the bright, aggressive light of the sun reminded him about how true it was. As imaginary as that message that never got to his phone. As real as that letter that was never sent and he could never read.
Strangely, it was also bliss. A bliss of nothingness and yet, a sea of hope. Mischievous hope. Of an untrue fact and a stabbing thought. Never-ending pain and Ever-lasting love. As eventful as the pain he feels thinking of that possible future. As momentary as the memory of that kiss on his cheek at 2AM.
Slowly but steadily he begins to lose his mind. Through multiple seconds a day, through continuous days a week. Life doesn't sound like a violin anymore. It sounds more like that old vertical piano of 1956. Feels broken, and nostalgic. But still plays.
The piano will play eternally if life sees it not to smash itself. And the wooden, hand-crafted piano doesn't want to play anymore sometimes. The piano wants to get rid of anyone trying to play it, at the same time the memories of a long-gone pianist keep it from destroying itself.
The birds feel like random recordings of people gossiping in whispers. And the wind screams like static from an old tape. That storm coming from the north looks like the drums and jericho trumpets he has been waiting for. And the rain like steps of a thousand black cats.
Over the forest line, the grey grows darker as it gets closer. Everything makes noise except a pair of orange eyes watching from a tree. Silent, the owl stands watch without the observer knowing of its presence.
I love how dark the grey is on those clouds. -said the sick kid watching from his dirty window.
Every day that goes by, the louder the piano plays and the more broken it sounds. The birds gossip has more voices as the hours go by. And the jericho trumpets haven't played yet. But the clouds begin to fall to that unavoidable high-speed crash between dropplets of rain and a standing ground.
Petrichor is a memory smell. A scent that is never gone for too long, and that will always return soon enough. The owl suddenly leaves his spot and a hand in the kid's shoulder scares him. It's only his mother bringing his daily pills. He looks bored of the colourful bits. And so the kid asked.
-For how long do I have to take these pills, mom?
-It's you, and only you who takes them, son. Your mind wants them.
The kid, now still a sick 20 year-old awakes to changing coloured lights from a limbo, with pills in his hand. 3 pills of MDMA. The piano begins to play.
-Please spare me, kid, for I only want to get rid of all I hear around. I just want to fit for once.
The whispering gossip is everyone gathered around. The wind is the music distorted for its loudness. And the piano; the piano was always there. The piano was his mind.
I will, mighty instrument, if you answer me one question. - the boy said;
So he sentenced.
<< Tell me the truth when I ask; do we need these pills to survive at all, or to feel alive for once?>>
-horus;
Then finally awaken, relieved it was just a dream, the bright, aggressive light of the sun reminded him about how true it was. As imaginary as that message that never got to his phone. As real as that letter that was never sent and he could never read.
Strangely, it was also bliss. A bliss of nothingness and yet, a sea of hope. Mischievous hope. Of an untrue fact and a stabbing thought. Never-ending pain and Ever-lasting love. As eventful as the pain he feels thinking of that possible future. As momentary as the memory of that kiss on his cheek at 2AM.
Slowly but steadily he begins to lose his mind. Through multiple seconds a day, through continuous days a week. Life doesn't sound like a violin anymore. It sounds more like that old vertical piano of 1956. Feels broken, and nostalgic. But still plays.
The piano will play eternally if life sees it not to smash itself. And the wooden, hand-crafted piano doesn't want to play anymore sometimes. The piano wants to get rid of anyone trying to play it, at the same time the memories of a long-gone pianist keep it from destroying itself.
The birds feel like random recordings of people gossiping in whispers. And the wind screams like static from an old tape. That storm coming from the north looks like the drums and jericho trumpets he has been waiting for. And the rain like steps of a thousand black cats.
Over the forest line, the grey grows darker as it gets closer. Everything makes noise except a pair of orange eyes watching from a tree. Silent, the owl stands watch without the observer knowing of its presence.
I love how dark the grey is on those clouds. -said the sick kid watching from his dirty window.
Every day that goes by, the louder the piano plays and the more broken it sounds. The birds gossip has more voices as the hours go by. And the jericho trumpets haven't played yet. But the clouds begin to fall to that unavoidable high-speed crash between dropplets of rain and a standing ground.
Petrichor is a memory smell. A scent that is never gone for too long, and that will always return soon enough. The owl suddenly leaves his spot and a hand in the kid's shoulder scares him. It's only his mother bringing his daily pills. He looks bored of the colourful bits. And so the kid asked.
-For how long do I have to take these pills, mom?
-It's you, and only you who takes them, son. Your mind wants them.
The kid, now still a sick 20 year-old awakes to changing coloured lights from a limbo, with pills in his hand. 3 pills of MDMA. The piano begins to play.
-Please spare me, kid, for I only want to get rid of all I hear around. I just want to fit for once.
The whispering gossip is everyone gathered around. The wind is the music distorted for its loudness. And the piano; the piano was always there. The piano was his mind.
I will, mighty instrument, if you answer me one question. - the boy said;
So he sentenced.
<< Tell me the truth when I ask; do we need these pills to survive at all, or to feel alive for once?>>
-horus;
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