Surreal. Another time, another place.
Her name is Laura and she has tears in her eyes.
I put them there.
I met her not 24 hours ago.
The sun is warm, the wind is cool, and my heart is hardened like ice.
Bitterness and anger.
Not towards her or spoken to her, but seen.
Pain and suffering. She cries. Her heart is breaking.
I am dumbfounded. Speechless.
I am filled with regret; my words were not intended to provoke such a response, but something I said struck a chord with her.
This is not classical music. It was not intended to be aesthetically pleasing. No emphasis of Beauty over Expression.
Conflicts, split decisions, apprehensions, judgments, and hypocrisies flood the conversation.
I am not a prolific composer but there are enough words I want to be heard.
Every once in a while my conversations parallel and mimic that of Haydn's Symphony 94; sometimes of 45.
I am exhausted and I am jittery.
I am calm and I am frantic.
She is crying.
I have become a virtuoso; things are ok, I am moving on and I am falling back.
I win and she loses.
She is hopeful and I am realistic.
I admire her though. Her tears are not of weakness but of compassion. Maybe next time she will wear waterproof
& I will be a liar.
I am floating. I am flying. I am falling.
I am scattered. I am shaking.
And she is still crying.
She is crying for me.
