I am feeling very musical. Kind of like a little bird that must siiiiiiiing it’s little heart out from the branches of a tall, wide tree.
I’m hearing music in the silence, and composing infinite flute harmonies around it. I’m dreaming of it, breathing it, and my hands and my lungs itch to make wild notes in the air.
If I hadn’t been a musician once before, I’d think I were turning crazy.
In the meantime, I grow frustrated with my prose, that it doesn’t hold the depth and beauty that my regurgitated-from-notation music does. I get grumpy, seeing the dullness of my words. Point blank, I ache to write as subtly and emotionally and honestly as music.
And I know it can be done. I hear it in my head, in strange resonances. I feel it in myself, a thrumming just below the surface.
Someday, I will succeed.