The smell of dust is almost soothing.
Entering the room, I shut the door behind, along with the suffocating sterility outside.
My eyes fall on the gentle beam of light entering through the small window, on the wooden floor. It's the only source of light, but enough to light up every corner. Innocent as it was left, untouched and cheerful.
I count my footsteps as I approach the forgotten instrument. Dust has collected on every inch of it. Its sleek black has been dulled by time. But it still lies there, smiling gleefully at me. The kind of smile I will never be able to return. Even under the accumulated dirt, its enthusiasm shines, almost reaching out with welcoming arms towards its faithless owner.
A broken piano.
I'm afraid to call mine.
Tears threaten to well up in my eyes at the pitiful sight. As I remember so vividly, every detail of that day. The day I deliberately let myself drown in an ocean of defeat. The day I broke down when along with myself, I broke everything else.
With careful fingers, I trace the keys, but I flinch when the sound erupts.
Just like lightning in the dark,
It breaks the silence that I had grown accustomed to.
It's not the sound of music, it's the sound of pain.
Like an outburst of suppressed cries,
Hidden beneath its wholesome smile.
It is then, that I realized:
The last of its strings are broken.
Forever.
YOU ARE READING
We are here now.
Historia CortaWe must dream, watch them shatter, fall apart piece by piece, agonizingly slow. We must dream again, before reality becomes a truth we can never wake up from. A parallel and gradually converging story of two different personalities of the same per...
