There is a water mark on the ceiling which is somewhat circular and fragmented in its jagged yellow zags. I've been staring at it for a long while now, and for some reason I cannot remember my own ceiling beneath my Master's roof, or whether I had ever really noticed ceilings before, at all.
I long for different days gone by. Past times, filled with the reckless ability to do whatever I wanted to do, whenever I was not detained with long music practice and rehearsals. How I long now for the endless hours of gruelling practice and the threat of my Master's whip if I am less than perfect with every rigorous musical scale.
The hand that lays beside me is wrapped in thick bandage, yet I feel that it is not mine at all. It must be foreign and grotesque, because it has been hidden away from me beneath the wraps. My right arm is pinned and immobile. I cannot even bend it to unwrap the bandage from my left hand to have a look. I am unable to rise from where I have laid the past few days, and it is painful even to breathe.
Once I dreamt that I heard music in the face of an urchin. Pretty in her innocence and her bashful fears. But I awoke to the sound of silence, with not a single melody to draw me away again. I do not think I will ever dream again as it does not seem feasible beneath a yellowed water mark on the ceiling. The sight of it only compels me to count away the long hours, and the pain I must endure ever since...
"the day the music died."
I long for different days gone by. Past times, filled with the reckless ability to do whatever I wanted to do, whenever I was not detained with long music practice and rehearsals. How I long now for the endless hours of gruelling practice and the threat of my Master's whip if I am less than perfect with every rigorous musical scale.
The hand that lays beside me is wrapped in thick bandage, yet I feel that it is not mine at all. It must be foreign and grotesque, because it has been hidden away from me beneath the wraps. My right arm is pinned and immobile. I cannot even bend it to unwrap the bandage from my left hand to have a look. I am unable to rise from where I have laid the past few days, and it is painful even to breathe.
Once I dreamt that I heard music in the face of an urchin. Pretty in her innocence and her bashful fears. But I awoke to the sound of silence, with not a single melody to draw me away again. I do not think I will ever dream again as it does not seem feasible beneath a yellowed water mark on the ceiling. The sight of it only compels me to count away the long hours, and the pain I must endure ever since...
"the day the music died."
