I’m eating peach rings
and drinking wine in my kitchen again.
It’s the usual Wednesday night.
A T.V. plays in the background,
my phone sits face-down, to my right,
and the piano is in front of me.
I stare at the piece of music that lays open on the stand.
I can’t really read music,
but I take a big drink of the wine,
roll up my sleeves
and try to play.
It’s mostly just noise;
the pounding of the keys.
I try to pretend I am a pianist
I try to pretend that I know what I’m doing.
The music doesn’t groove.
It doesn’t bounce or pop,
It doesn’t make you feel much,
it sometimes,
might make you think a little.
Sometimes.
No one likes to think anymore though.
They just want the feel and the pop.
I don’t blame them.
It’s a lot more fun to feel and to pop,
then it is
to
think.
I close my eyes
and try to hear my music.
It sounds choppy.
It sounds sloppy.
I know this.
I’ve always known this.
I keep at it though,
almost every night.
Something is pulling me towards it,
the pounding of the keys.
Something tells me to try to get better.
To practice.
And one day,
I’ll make them pop.
I’ll make them feel.
I’ll groove.
One day…
It’s always one day…
Never today.
I pound with my left hand,
a low rhythm emerges,
I pound with my right hand,
a higher rhythm floats from the keys
and into the air.
It holds for a few seconds,
it blends perfectly together,
creating something like a song…
And then
it’s
gone.
The music fades away,
like the smoke from my bong,
after I’ve exhaled a big rip.
It just
slowly floats up in the air
and
disappears,
into the nothingness.
Just like today will,
just like I will.
The pointless nights,
pretending to be something I am not,
is at the least,
a way to waste some time,
during a cold
and dark
winter.