(Ideally you would play this music as you read the piece. – Owen)
I wanted to participate in perfection, and make multicolored tulips out of music. I was eighteen, and knew hatred, love, and despair.
The world was ugly: violent, unjust, and painful. But alone, in a spotlight on a wooden stage, these notes, this music built a beautiful world for me, a home. And beauty and sadness were that home: a lovers’ dance, in a world beyond words.
And I blinked, and thirty-seven years went by.
And when I heard the music again, this morning, tears started falling, because of who that boy was, and what he believed, and what would come of him. For in playing this music, he was trying to recreate some measure of perfection.
A thing he no longer thinks possible, most days.