Do you know, I can play your song with my eyes closed.​​

*

​​It's not that I see right through you or I’ve conquered you in some way.​​

Don't worry. 

Your song is deep and complex, full of hidden meanings.

I don't understand it. 

But I can play it.

Go on, hand me your sheet music. I'll take one look and reflect it back.

No charge. My gift to you. 

I'll play you your true sounds. Who you really are. I'll show you notes you never knew were there. Let me surround you in the rhythm of you - you'll just sink right into it - you know, really enjoy it - 

You've never experienced your own living beauty, have you?​ Not like this.​

*​​

But stay a while!

I'm empty as a drum, you see

If there's no music in front of me.

When I play your song, I'm joined together with it. I get to be whole again. 

And of course, you get something out of it, too. 

You get to be heard.

No, don't leave just yet!

*

​​It’s heavy, isn’t it? 

Schlepping all that sheet music, untranslated and silent, with no one to play it.

I can help you.

Please?

*​

​And yet.​

​The empty spaces are not sustainable. Walking around all day in an empty house, waiting, hoping for a piece of music. 

​​A stray melody, a cadence. ​​

And where’s it going to come from? An exchange with a stranger? A notification on my phone?​​

Oh it comes. When I’m not looking, and when I’m not pushing. Someone with music always shows up at my door. I don’t starve.​​

But you know, I don’t want to be like this.​ I want to be a full cup, overflowing with my own music and able to play yours when you come.​​

*

That’s why these days, I’m writing my own music.

​​I’m walking by myself outside, listening. ​ ​​I’m waiting for that little voice, its familiar softness and its truth. Feeling its energy in my body, spreading to the ends of my fingers. ​​

I’m breathing into my own fullness.

Oh, you don’t want to hear this, do you?​

Or do you…

No, you don't, but do you...

Know how to play my song?​“