Smashing piano keys

I pick up the pen. I want to write. I am desperate to create.

And yet all I think of is 'what should I think of?'.

I see colours and scenes, feel licks and taste the slightest variation of the air.

A dirty rain storm perhaps; something burns. Somewhere, someone is eating a kebab.

Am I surrounded by a million million, or am I utterly alone?

Who is right? What question should we ask? Should we dare to think or dare to speak? Is it better to be right than to be happy?

What should be thought? What ought to be written; sung? Screamed into the night, or danced during the day.

What melody tells the truth, but that which best fits everything you believe to be true in the exact here and now.

What story will you believe, but the one that you already do.

I'm so tired of false struggles, lies. Who is alive; the gangster bleeding in a gutter, eyes slurred with whatever substance? Or the professor striking chalk furiously against a board, unable to understand why? Perhaps the unknowing child; innocent and yet helpless and without knowledge, banging the toy on the piano keys.

Life is smashing the piano keys with your toy. For that is all it truely is, that is now. That is real. That is true.

Where did you go? Why did you leave for me?

Which one of us was better for the 'everybody else'?

Here I stand. I want to create.

The piano is still there. I could walk in with a sledge hammer and shatter it beyond recognition!

And I would die inside. Some things were meant to fail.

I seek my next real.