11:47 p.m. - Monday, Mar. 29, 2010
He is a poet.
I love it because it's the only place I feel completely comfortable exposing my truest self. It's my only connection to emotion.
I had closed my eyes and didn't even know it until the last note died away and I realized I was in darkness. My body was still vibrating. The room was full of silence. Swelling with it.
I can't tell you how I feel. I can't tell you the things that have happened. I can't explain why I hate this body, this person, this life. I can't share my joy, pain, sorrow. But sometimes, I am the music. And the music can tell you.
This one is all about him. You can hear him singing to her . . .crooning. His awkward entrance. His anger. You can feel his desperation. He is a poet. Snide remarks and clever word games. She remains unmoved, untouched. Steady. Emotionless. Until finally he fades away.
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