Just now I have the wish that these keys played music.
Instead of typing words these abstract symbols would form notes and feelings.
and these plastic coated keys would bring the same relief I’ve found in those coated in ivory.
Strong chords spelling peace for the soul.
joy for the heart.
creativity for the mind.

That moment when writing can be like playing music.
At times deep and thoughtful. Others light and airy. And still others filled with as much dexterity and mystery as the works of chopin.

The possibility is there. In writing the works of great masters are not to be copied or performed. The only acceptable means of forming meaning exist solely in the production of your own vision.
Wishing the feelings and words into being so that your mind can have some sort of peaceful calm. The situations of the day float away in the creation. And all that is left is your creation.

Left
on the waves of sounds
for others to enjoy
or disregard as they might please.

This is the art of music.
This is the art of writing.

In one, the artist perform the works of others in their own way.
In the other, the work is just their own.
Both creative. Both bring to life the person in an intimate way.

One brings feeling to sound, bringing to life the notes on the page.

The other puts sound to feeling, bringing life to thoughts in the mind

sounds and feelings or words and thoughts.

the artist makes the choice.

I choose to fall between the lines.

Wishing for music and searching for the words that might someday spell the music in my soul.