The piano sits silent. I can't bring myself to touch the keys, to place nimble fingers on the black and white and produce the smallest measure. I am empty, devoid of music and sound, preferring this, the beauty of the vacuum left behind by my melancholic spirit. I am but the husk of an artist, bewildered by the absence of inspirational thought, or the motivation to create something from the nothing. I long to see the notes again within my mind's eye, fearing it is now lost, cast out into the void to be found by someone else, who will make more of it than I ever did. The hall is unoccupied, the applause a memory. The piano sits silent. Alone.
gokieza_writesDude this gave me the chillssszz.... No idea if I got it right ..
paulwrites@gokieza_writes thanks so much As for getting it right, the thing ive always liked about writing pieces such as this is that its open to interpretation. Each reader can take something different from it. So. Yes i think you got it right thanks for reading!