To Drown in This Life

The sun fell asleep under the horizon which lived then, and the smell of lilacs froze under that twilight.

His delicate fingers pressed down on the ivory keys that afternoon, in the hazy summer of adulthood--in the blissful kisses of memories belonging to a childhood already lost.

He became a pianist for the sake of pain and joy and melancholy, and sometimes they all consumed in one strangling motion of oppression. He became a pianist to keep his head above the dark waters--because if writers capture moments, then pianists give them color.

He knew what he was--his spirit was art and beauty, and there was a delicate fascination about him. Even, humbled as he was, among the lilacs and pinks and buzz of crickets and creaks of wooden floors...even then, when he formed a small part of that orchestra, that painting, that moment...he knew, that even after his death these moments would live.

Do you care, sir, that they play it too quickly, too slowly, or, with different keys? The sun asked him.

No...moments are moments

Two years ago I fell in love with Chopin...and now, as I hear Horowitz play Opus 10, I'm hearing him for the very first time.

aeka at 11:30 a.m.