November 10, 2010


She sits at the piano, extends her arms and sends waves of dancing little notes all around the house. Seconds ago, there was only silence and the soft sound of my fingers on the pages of a book I enjoy in small sips.

I can only imagine what she does or how she feels, because I’m not allowed in her musical sanctuary. It’s her home, her secret hideout, a creative lair she can always retreat to. I respect that to the fullest and identify my solitary runs as being the exact same thing; comfortable islands of the same in a world ever changing.

I often catch myself wishing I could join her in this moment. I don’t have music coming out of me, only the simple little ramblings and thoughts that I collect here. She, on the contrary, is musical in essence, melodic and light. I secretly hope some of my words reach out to her and fill parts of her space, like her notes warmly surround my quiet daydream.

She doesn’t know I’m writing. I feel the amused excitement of a little child preparing a clumsy surprise, knowing how she must think I’m washing dishes or reading on the couch. Then, for a moment, I cringe at the idea of publishing this small moment of a growing intimacy.

She’s part of my life, now, I echo from the inside, thus she’s a de facto dweller in Flintland.

I really hope she likes it here.

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