I compose stories in my head. Every waking moment. Sometimes in my sleep.
But then in the blink of an eye, it’s broken. I try to piece it back together, and that is why I write. That is why I play. To try recompose the fragments of a masterpiece.
Sometimes it changes. I can never make all the broken pieces to fit together perfectly, but it is the same with any broken thing. Broken glass, broken words, broken people. But we still admire those things in spite of the mismatched patterns and jagged edges.
It morphs into something different, but that is okay. Because it is still mine.
Once I woke with the music still in my head. It was spectacular, the movement through time, the subtle beauty of the notes twisting through the air.
It shattered in the wake of my alarm, vanishing and leaving me incomplete.