The piano sat in a corner, collecting dust I avoid eye contact with it on most days It's a reminder of a time I used to play ("Music is your thing!") a reminder of a dream I left halfway something which brought me so much joy previously now made me think of my inadequacies of all the jazz I didn't learn But today as I despair into the deepening night I look to it for comfort and it stands there, just like it has all these years I sit down and run my fingers over the keys and I confess I rage and mellow and battle and my stiff fingers trip and slip but I play, and play, and play and I am rescued all over again

Music was my thing,

it always has been.