(humming loudly to myself)
POUNDING LOUDLY AT THE PIANO!
I leave my solitude for a moment to get some water.
(All the while, symphonies compose themselves in my head,
falling into place easily and without fighting.)
On paper, however that is a different story.
I wrestle with perfection,
not sure how to place my thoughts on my white computer screen.
(Ever questioning, ever rewriting.)
I dream of being a great symphonist!
My operas and concert works admired by millions!
FORCEFULLY CREATING IMPREGNIBLE FORTRESSES OF SOUND!
but only can dream at the moment,
searching for somebody to recognize my talent.
I'm questioned, asked "Why write this music? What purpose does it have?"
And I can only say, as Beethoven did, "Because I HAVE too!"
They say, "What is your inspiration? What meaning does it have?"
I say, "I look inside the dark pit of my soul, to the intricatacies of the universe,
and the simplicity of nature. There I find the essence of my craft."
They say, "Compose like Adams and Glass! Like modern men!"
I say, "But there is no emotion, and what is expression without emotion?"
No, my music will be nothing more if not emotion.
So I return to my desk, humming and pounding away.
Letting the long-endless song continue, ever playing onward without ever hearing