Colors didn’t touch me anymore. That doesn’t mean the world didn’t dazzle me – just that I couldn’t make sense of them and no inspiration came forth. During this time I had a notion that I used to be better and my perception used to be clearer, but the sun rays that burst out of rainy clouds must have muddled everything. Anything I aimed for dripped off the ice cream cone. (Dramatic irony: my pencil just rolled away, past the point of reclamation). It probably wouldn’t have been sweet enough for me anyways.

Mother and child speak within me one day. The me of myself, who is somewhere lost between the two (a supposed golden combination that was instead violently blended into some yellow down the toilet), follows these speakers to her sister’s piano recital because for once, the two are in mellow harmony. Through the mess of pianos, me-myself stepped into the recital room: a room for the innocent to present their undeveloped playing for the “developed” to “delight in” (snoring is a sort of delight I guess). I was once an “innocent” and now I sit with the “developed”. Music once opened my mind, beat in my heart, shined in my soul . . . the me of myself chases after its echoes – my preserved lumps of propensity.

Anyways, the first little girl ran away from the stage and into her mother’s arms (that probably held her too tight; a Venus Fly-Trap if I ever saw one). The rest brave the grand instrument, clunking away clumsy notes that suddenly hit me. Because the music once shined in my soul. Because I once shined with its potential. Because the potential was seen by gleaming eyes. Because I so desperately locked my “innocence” in a box. Because the lock wasn’t made with a key. Even the smiling performer couldn’t lead me out of my labyrinth.

The stupid stunning shining spring sun suddenly smiles down out at me and I am blinded. Only my sister’s trophy is at hand.