When I stand beneath a starry night, I remember why I love Chopin.
The blues and tonal greens swell in my chest until sometimes I think I will burst if I don’t feel the keys beneath my fingers. Sometimes one star will catch and hold my gaze, and in it I hear a crystal clear note, maybe the G in the beginning of Nocturne No. 2. The shades blend so perfectly, although sometimes clearly dissonant. My words fall short and scatter themselves around my feet because they cannot fly into the open air.
Sometimes I forget, and want to run dancing, twirling into the house and beg Mom to come outside with me and hear the symphony of a wide open sky. I want her to hear what I hear and love, and maybe she will love the way the chords do.
But then I remember, and hug myself tight, and hear my own heartbeat because no one else feels like I do.
Someone once told me that music, like prose, should be achingly beautiful. She was a writer and I was a musician, and she would never understand the potency of one beautiful chord; a single note dropped like a pebble into still water. She wasn’t even a good writer.
But achingly beautiful is how I want my music to be described, because I am my music and I want to be achingly beautiful.
The blues and tonal greens swell in my chest until sometimes I think I will burst if I don’t feel the keys beneath my fingers. Sometimes one star will catch and hold my gaze, and in it I hear a crystal clear note, maybe the G in the beginning of Nocturne No. 2. The shades blend so perfectly, although sometimes clearly dissonant. My words fall short and scatter themselves around my feet because they cannot fly into the open air.
Sometimes I forget, and want to run dancing, twirling into the house and beg Mom to come outside with me and hear the symphony of a wide open sky. I want her to hear what I hear and love, and maybe she will love the way the chords do.
But then I remember, and hug myself tight, and hear my own heartbeat because no one else feels like I do.
Someone once told me that music, like prose, should be achingly beautiful. She was a writer and I was a musician, and she would never understand the potency of one beautiful chord; a single note dropped like a pebble into still water. She wasn’t even a good writer.
But achingly beautiful is how I want my music to be described, because I am my music and I want to be achingly beautiful.
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