The Writer and his Piano

Here’s a story about a musician, or a writer, hmm a creative person? But creativity can take on many different forms, I’d like to write, well how do I put this, I’d like to be free, to support my life, through various means of expression, to continuously learn, but find at a young age, yet not subjected to hard-headed scrutinous imprisonment, a few ways for me to express myself, a craft of sorts, a method of articulation, a sort of discipline, that is capable of reflecting all that I feel, as well as defying the boundaries of my egocentrism, an exploring my limitless imagination, or my limitless potential to imagine and to form this energy, or perhaps to dance a long this thread, walking the fine line between sanity and insanity, and unfolding the genius that lies at the middle of this, chaos and order, one foot in and one foot out, plunging into it at times in order to become a dexterous navigator of the tumultuous and unpredictable seas, so as to develop a capacity, a certain flexibility or opening of self to be able to take on such storms, they are a part of the journey, the journey without a final destination, but one that is forever unfolding inside of yourself, as the inner and outer overlap, one can find that the inner and outer are quite synonymous, almost like one is walking within themselves, or rather, flowing within themselves just as they are flowing outside. You see, there is a current of sorts, how to say it, you are on a boat, a rather obscure boat at times, for it is shadowed by egoism, or self-centeredness, but sometimes, the raft is shaken so deeply, that it is tipped over, and one is propelled into the depths of their being, and in this darkness, a sort of faith can be found, for in the obscurity must be a guiding light, a lantern fish of sorts that appears when you are nearly at the bottom, hopelessly plummeting, and this light opens your eyes, to the immensity of this ocean, and the fluidity that comes from following its course. Slowly, one can find their way back to the raft, or remain in the ocean, but forever this immensity is with them, they are flowing with it invariably, with all life, but previously one had been so concerned with the immediacy, or the enclosed circumstances of his life, that they failed to see this devastatingly ravishing ocean which carries all life to a great waterfall. Anyways, this is the story of a young boy, who felt a calling for this great big sea, and wished to explore its depth. Wishing to be a craftsman, an exploratory soldier of the world of lively movement, the movement which comes from opening one to the dimension of creativity, the creativity that is this current, this river of sorts that is present within, flowing but sometimes forgotten. To find a craft would be to find freedom, to be a pianist, a poet, a writer, a singer, a blacksmith, a creator of lamps, an inventor of something, there seems to be a freedom to these crafts and an exploration of something new can be ensued as one becomes engaged with these practices. But, how to say, a spark has to come from this thing, a fascination that can deepen ones being, a deepening of self through art, or exploration of a certain activity, it may be a sport. I know of many athletes that have the look to them, the look of faith, a momentous drive to continue training, a determination, a spirit of resilience that inspires them to relentlessly practice their sport, because they have felt what this discipline can bring them, a moment of clarity, of awakening, or opening to a spirit of life and uplifting energy that is within you. One can feel it momentarily when they are entranced, having this feeling, perhaps writing while drinking coffee or tea, perhaps when singing, composing a piano piece, training mercilessly on the boxing bag, running several kilometers, climbing a mountain, realizing while in this almost divinely training, a training, or a practice, that captures the practitioner attention so entirely, that one feels possessed, flowing naturally as the pulse of life, in this entrance state one can realize that things happen in and of themselves, because they are themselves. Thus, the relationship between human beings and nature is discovered, in a way human nature is discovered. The essence, or perhaps necessity of nature is that it lives fully as itself in order to proliferate, and fulfill itself, being itself is, so to say, the purpose of its existence, for in being itself it intermingles with all other forms of life in order to sustain this organism we know as life. You know what I mean, they live because they are just themselves. So perhaps the key is to just be what you are at any given moment, to know what you know, to understand your truth and live by it until it naturally evolves, or metamorphizes into its next form. These are all thoughts which the writer thinks to himself, pondering how he can be marvelous, sometimes he feels so deeply invigorated, as if he’s taken over by something else, an idea, an engine which operates independently of his thoughts, but is energized by his willingness to listen to it. And other times, he feels in a state of disdain, almost as if he is repugnant of himself, and wishes to be whole, he wishes for peace of mind, and heartful love, yet he knows he must dive into these darkened depths, into these ominous rooms of his being, to fully become a master, to be able to encapsulate his emotions in the form of piano and writing, and singing, and creating he must first venture to those places which he long hid from, and compartmentalized somewhere in his inner storage room. He knows he has to weep, to cry, to scream, and it’s been going on inside of him for quite some times, but the child has been trapped, for fear of vulnerability. The child has been protected, like a precious jewel, but the child wishes to merge with this flow of life, and in order for this to happen, it must be let free. Free to make mistakes, free to embody its rage, sadness, hysteria, confusion and magnificent love.