After midnight. The house is coated in darkness and there's only the quiet hissing sound of the heat, bubbling up from somewhere down in the basement. I can feel it more readily than it can be heard, brushing against the thin hairs on my arm, and it reminds me that I'm alive. That I'm real. That I'm not just a figment of someone's imagination; maybe yours. Maybe my own. Sometimes I wonder if life is just a dreamscape, an elaborate nightmare of minor rises and falls, stops and starts. Lather, rinse, repeat. Hell would be absolute banality, stuck perpetually in the mundane, where nothing interesting ever happens and where we're locked into this certain life, this certain groove, and where we can never, ever get out.
There's pages and pages of music sheets and crumpled up notebook paper everywhere I look. They carpet the floor, paper the walls, hang from the ceilings. Work is never an easy process for me, I have to surround myself in the music, reflect it all around me so that I become infused by it. So that I become inundated. I need to drown in it, let it overwhelm me, consume me. I trail my fingers over them, get papercuts along the soft parts of my skin, where calluses haven't taken over; blood, sweat, and tears. It's all consuming. It's everything. I give birth to the process, the pain and the glory. When I die, I want to be buried with my cello and the remains of every song that miscarried, every line and series of notes that was aborted before it could truly attain life.
The sky from the window is tempered by the lights of the city I live in, the city that's been stuck with me for the majority of my life. It's speckled, like vanilla bean ice cream, tapioca, the surface of a strawberry. People shout, laugh, live, die. Everywhere there's something happening even if it's only the slow decay of what's around us. Everywhere there's forward momentum, even when we feel most like we're crashing backward in reverse.
Her curves and lines are delicate as I take her into my arms. I wrap my legs around her, tangle my fingers into the heart of her and I feel peace. Each slide of my bow across her draws the sweetest sighs, the most lurid moans. I bow around her, fold myself over her protectively, and my cello weeps. Another song written. Another idea birthed, fragile and covered in mucus on my floor. Tomorrow, it'll be sent to my partners in crime. They'll clean it, wrap it in swaddling, arm it with everything it needs to provide a defense against the world before it's sent out to be ripped to shreds.
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