of the sound, the emotion.
Art imitates life.
And I, always wanting to be in control,
everything closely contained as a tight fist.
Too tight.
Pieces of me slip through the cracks of fingers.
The more I try to hold in, the more leaks through.
I'm getting nowhere.
It's the buildup, she said.
The paradox:
the more you allow yourself to let go,
the better you'll be able to hold that which remains,
the essentials.
But I see only that I am not ready
to give myself to the world,
to unfurl the fingers every so often,
to let the pieces fall as they may.
And so, the sound remains
incomplete.
i like this!
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