They feel so silly, all these words. Otherworldly. How they are typed out so nice and sweet, perfectly arranged, a cadence following a piano in my head. The soul’s Gnossienne. A reflection of an imaginary world, a refuge for when reality hits like an approaching brick wall. Solid and cold. So I scoff. Brick walls fall too, and then?

It was said at one point, no whimsy here on this planet, no spot for rhythm or blues, give your inner desires to production, straight lines doing what you are told, “don’t you see that it leads to heaven?” I could laugh at the absurdity. What of the quiet sigh at the end of the night that betrays a yearning for something more? What if heaven was skin against skin not above but here on earth. Think, all you ever held was nothing in every sense of the word, even the breath you hold.

All along the tempo of the heart was not meant to be found but composed. Here I leave contentment in notes, a symphony of unrelated tunes placed down in written form. Because if not now, when?

-A.Garcia