House of Dreams

In quiet moments the air is still. The world holds its breath and I fall. Paths I've known from long ago, set out before me. Familiarity a warm coat against the winter chill of forgotten moments. 

And then, as is now. It is a fresh moment of recall. I still can see your face. Long gone from my touch. Leaving no trace of skin or smell. Leaving only trace impressions on the heart. They sit so lightly. 

How the world spins. Endless motion fulfills the prophesy of circular movement, forever on a path worn thin with age. But ageless as well. I hear and feel the piano key beneath me. Fills me with lost worlds and memories of musical joy. Soaring higher than I can remember. A cadence of melodic joy, holding me afloat. 

In lives lived inside my head. I am a concert pianist and the orchestra and I are joined as one. The conductor, our magician, keeping our heartbeats in synch. Perfection is slow beats and languid Adagios. But so brittle. 

Have you ever wanted to write without a theme? Without a begnining or an end? My life is a blank canvas. The reality of lock down depleting me of the desire to explore new ground. Hemmed in with walls that don't yield. Where doors have lost their meaning. It doesn't matter if the sky is blue or grey, or wet or cold. We can't touch it with all our lives. We are contained. We are caught in a moment that never ends.