Unnamed Author

I tend to liberate myself through words, unspoken words which linger on paper or on a computer screen. These words occupy space in my soul; they are deep rooted, like old trees in some far away forest. Like dry leaves in a New England autumn, they linger, unexpectedly. I am bound to them, I cannot escape these words; they leave dents in my heart and scars in my soul. They sear themselves into my very own fabric, recreating themselves like a virus; stalking me from within, my companions. When I least expect it, they smother me, these words, these feelings, that seem to come from thin air. My hands uncontrollably type away, like playing a piano blindfolded, in the dark. They just come, and use me like a puppet. They string me around and express my feelings for me, my deeply rooted sentiments. Tales of love, and heartache; of woe and joy - breathing for me, talking for me, swaying in the breeze of a Gloucester day in August, when the air is salty and melancholic, as it knows fall’s around the corner.

Words… senseless emotions, daring dreams, hopeless ambitions, black keys on a piano; black keys that hang on to every note, as if it’s the last note ever to be played. In the dark, in the morning light, these words come from an unknown source – an unnamed author.

Dare I say, one day I’ll understand what their purpose is. But until then, they will speak and speak some more, in lonely notebooks, in flickering laptop screens, in dreams and fantasies, daring the world to recognize them for what they are, truly undying sentiments -borne from an unnamed author playing a piano blindfolded, in the dark. Smiling, justified, in the arms of melancholy and nostalgia.