Its a fairly easy life you lead. Everyone thinks that. You know that.
But there is always that darkness you love. Love? Perhaps. Sometimes you hate it. But the darkness is so farmiliar and welcoming, like a warm blanket on rainy days. Come home my child. It always seems to whisper. I will protect you.
But the blanket that never comes off even when you crave the sunlight. You don't even know how that feels anymore. Its so distant, the memory of it. Like the smell of your mother's embrace and the feeling of hot sticky icecream on your fingers after a church.
There are days you convince yourself that you don't need it anymore. That your couch is a way more trustworthy companion than the chatter and noise of 'friends'.
But today is one of those days, when you wake up and dig for that lace bra that is a size too small and a pair of shoes that make you feel like a high class hooker. And maybe you spend a few more minutes staring for cracks in your façade infront of your boudoir before you leave for the day. So maybe today is your big day. The day you have been saving that expensive lipstick for.
Oh you have been waiting for this day. You can hear the soft keys in your head. Beethoven opus 111. You just sway with it as you pat, brush dab. So perfect. So flawless.
Today is the day you play your final scene. The grand finale.
You wonder if people can see it when you walk into the office building. In the sway of your hip in time and tune to the melody in your head.
In the perfect smile you know won't crack today when that person you always pray will save you doesn't look at you.
And its like the whole world is out to see this masterpiece that is your day. The sky is a bit too excited with its blinding blues and dazzling rays of light, the smell...the smell in the air that reminds you of peonies and your mother's embrace, and the ice cream cart outside your office has just the chocolate ice cream you crave. Because today is that day. When you give it your all.
And the Sonata in your head reaches that point, you know, like when you listen to Led Zepplin, Stairway to Heaven, and its just minute after minute of crescendos and low intonations, emotions and spirit. When the song ends, you feel like you have lived your whole life in four minutes of melody. And you know today, when the final key rings in your head, you are homebound. You are free. Because this song, this masterpiece, according to your instructor, has been playing in your head, for longer than you might have been aware you think. But it has been stuck. Stuck on that note that will not end. No matter how many times you change it.
But today, it feels different. Oh you know it is.
You feel it in your bones when you wish your assistant a lovely weekend. Feel it in your blood when you choose that perfect bottle of wine as deep, as dark as the fluid in your veins. You can hear it in your very soul when you purchase those infinity candles from the old gentleman at the corner store. And you can taste it on your tongue when he smiles and gives you a good luck charm bracelet. Oh you know you don't need it. Not tonight.
This is the role you have been preparing yourself for, for years, since you sat between the warmth of your mama and pappa at the symphony. And heard, felt the crescendo. Beethoven. Sonata. Opus 111. And never has it been as loud as it is tonight.
You feel the tingle in your spine, the slight hitch in your breath as you open the door and walk in to your future.
Darkness. Darkness. Everywhere. But that is why you got candles.
After all, the play is only as good as the presentation.
And you lay it out. All of it.
A glass of wine for the star tonight.
Black sheath dress and the perfect hair.
Silk drapes over your trusted couch. Silver reflections bouncing off your instrument.
And you drink, and you dance to the music in your head, and you play with the instrument in your hand,
Feel the warmth of the candles, the fabric of your dress, the coolness of your tool on your skin, the taste of that perfect drink..and it goes on and on, off and on. On and on. On and on.
And you can feel the sweat beads on your shoulders, as that part comes.
When the notes are everything you feel in the world, and you let your instrument dance.
Over your collar bones, over your temples, down to your lips, and you taste the wine, the sweat and the blood, and its down, down, and there is more and more
Until the notes are too loud and the blood is too much
And with the whisper of the wind the candles go off.
Right when your instrument falls
And your legs give in.
You couldn't have gotten this scene any more better if you had practised.
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