molting over
Wishing so much that we had done something better sometimes that occasionally we wondered our silent moments further and further away. And then end up waiting, lost in sight of the all-together smug and smiling face of what once was, and what still may be. Those glorious other places are always just that: other places. Ones that shine maybe more, maybe slightly brighter than we are able to now. Someone else might remember those days. Moments when I might have known better but didn’t. There are danker days I could live in, just holding on. Or I could love the better ones, those that resonate further and deeper than my formerly small efforts at joy ever could. Those stomping colours that weren’t just neon and gold, they loved me back. Those moments seemed glorious, and we might be glorious still. Those days, the ones that make me think of when I was a child, and I can remember the possibility seemed dashing enough; that for one split second, I might forget all my betrayals and launch myself into the sky.
A slight delay, but look for the the full release of these semi-improvised piano works in a small collection sometime in the first part of September.
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