by Angela Kempe
I was alone with my mind until I wasn’t even alone with myself. While imagining a sea of strangers sitting in the dark with blank faces like lanterns floating whimsically upon a moonlit lake. My fingers gliding over white ivories with the manic intensity left only for the indubitably insane. Listening to my heart heaving underneath the quiet sound of muted notes suffocating under a constant high-pitched hum.
I felt fingers tapping fervently. Eased my wrists to soften under the passionate prodding of my mind as hate oozed out of my soul like the hot magma of a seething volcano, disfiguring all that it had loved. The song, once exploding with rich overtones, crackling like sparkling fireworks resounding in my ears, now smothered by the strict repetition of monotonous memorization, muscle memory, and the memory of what music once was.
To remember what was loved so dearly, vanishing like a lover who lost interest long ago. Music: its thousand notes, fading and folding like a picture whose face stares faintly back at me from the thick fog of death.