Where do I Begin

My fingers are slipping. Bit by bit by bit. I know it is coming. I know I know I know.

Sheet music in G Minor. The tune just goes on and on. I wonder why the neighbours don’t complain of having to deal with someone so autistic. The fingers do not seem to be able to stop and I have come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, they are not mine anymore. Playing the tune for something infinite to dance to. Again and again, round and round.

You took me out dancing last night. Even then as I was feeling your shirt, the fabric, the pattern with my fingers and smelling every emotion with it, the tune in G Minor continued to play. With all the jazzy lights, with all the crazy beats of music I was not too familiar with.

Many years ago I looked like this girl. Her unkempt, long hair often played with the contours of her chest. A sight that you liked watching. Time passes, yeah buddy, you told me that once. Time passes.

But how the tune refuses to go away with time is something I have not been able to understand. Explain it to me, why do the fingers itch so much, why do the notes have to dance alive in front of me no less than a million times, why? Shouldn’t time affect on that as well?

I will have to go away now. To another part of the world that is poorer for not being able to listen to the carousal sheet music, for not being able to dance in a room with white walls and no music playing.

The monsoons are going to be here soon, the Gulmohar flowers are a riot. The red and the green effortlessly adding colour to the soothing sky. The rains are going to be here, the sheet music will continue to play.

Across time and space there will be a cosmic dance, and I am going to be the queen of the ball. For now, the music has to resume.