Sometimes, I sit on the piano stool and stare at the wall. My fingers rest on the ivories, limp and still. The music in front of me isn't another language, it's a blur of dots and lines.
Sometimes, I have to remind myself five or six times to stand up. That I have things to do.
Sometimes, I sit for half an hour, not moving, barely blinking, staring into space. I'm not here, I can't feel the time flying past me.
Sometimes, I'm worried my whole life will fly past me and I won't notice.
Sometimes, I'm angry I'm wasting so much time.
But I have to apologise, a handwritten note with a pale blue ribbon, because sometimes I need to turn off. Other worlds are waiting for me, and I can't help slipping away.
And sometimes that's ok.
Sometimes, I have to remind myself five or six times to stand up. That I have things to do.
Sometimes, I sit for half an hour, not moving, barely blinking, staring into space. I'm not here, I can't feel the time flying past me.
Sometimes, I'm worried my whole life will fly past me and I won't notice.
Sometimes, I'm angry I'm wasting so much time.
But I have to apologise, a handwritten note with a pale blue ribbon, because sometimes I need to turn off. Other worlds are waiting for me, and I can't help slipping away.
And sometimes that's ok.
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