The past comes back to haunt us.
There was a time...and I feel surprised to realize that that time is now 10-12 years behind- when I wanted to play the piano. I wanted to play Chopin on the piano. It was an obsession, a frenzy, a dream. It was a desire that was a fire that scorched-burning tears that scalded the cheeks they ran down against-it was a burning desire. I wanted to play the piano. Nothing would soothe this desire-this neurotic narcissus that I was, a plain but sensitive child, a child who cried even more when she heard the musical wailing of violins...for that soothed. The violins were the lyric to the epic of piano. Make what you will of that.
Then I realized that I could never play Chopin. I would always hear. I was reconciled. I grew up. I was too lazy to learn the violin, but not too lazy to listen to-say- Yehudi Menuhin. But sometimes majestic chords would stir something deep within me; like a memory that is the glowing embers beneath the mound of ash. Waiting to erupt with the right breeze. Memories are strange things. Some you remember, some you will yourself to forget. Denial is the deepest river in Egypt. The pianoforte is the instrument that is always on this side of modernity. However, I digress.
I did not realize when the restlessness became neurosis and when the neurosis became psychosis. I did not realize when the glass broke to make a million fragments of me. I did not realize when the rainbow split and merged and forgot me in the process of bringing together that last streak of violet and the last stain of red. I was out of the picture, just as I had never been in it. It was a dream, but then what is a dream? It is not a lie, but it is not reality either. I wish I could tell. But there is nothing to share on this side of the glass, if only I could have stepped on to the other side-before it broke.
I would like to thank my memories, but I also want to spit on them. Today I put on some Chopin. 12 years faded away-dissolved into nothingness- the 8 year old who stared at me, was staring at with me longing and revulsion. No! I said. This cannot be the other side.
She stares. She hates me. She tells me only one thing.
Why didn't you?