Is the shade of the shoreline white or black?
When the waves spill themselves onto shore, the undulations of the seawater hit the uneven sand at regular octaves, sending a soft swooshing whiteness racing sideways along the beach. In the darkness, the effervescent foam and water creates an interesting visual illusion at the water's edge - one that alternates between dark water and bare sand, between shadow and light, between the revolutionary and the unyielding. Like the keys of a melancholic piano piece, every note is a silent scream in the twilight on this empty beach.
I am immediately reminded of your figure slouched over the piano. Every shift of weight forward on the keyboard is another crash of your soul on the sharp metal strings, a deep resonance that stabs inwards. It is a middle C, a note of sullen ambivalence, of quiet solitude and detachment. And as your fingers pull back like the tide, and your hair part to reveal those eyes, what dark treasures do they uncover? You do not relent, and another crash is set into motion by the flurry of your fingers, until you're buried by arpeggios, until the notes run out like blood from your wrists.
In the end, there's a silence.
A solitary tear drop hits the keys and seeps silently between the black and the white. You close the piano's fallboard and lock it for good.
Another tear drop hits the sand faraway, and it stains its whiteness in the darkest shade of black.
When the waves spill themselves onto shore, the undulations of the seawater hit the uneven sand at regular octaves, sending a soft swooshing whiteness racing sideways along the beach. In the darkness, the effervescent foam and water creates an interesting visual illusion at the water's edge - one that alternates between dark water and bare sand, between shadow and light, between the revolutionary and the unyielding. Like the keys of a melancholic piano piece, every note is a silent scream in the twilight on this empty beach.
I am immediately reminded of your figure slouched over the piano. Every shift of weight forward on the keyboard is another crash of your soul on the sharp metal strings, a deep resonance that stabs inwards. It is a middle C, a note of sullen ambivalence, of quiet solitude and detachment. And as your fingers pull back like the tide, and your hair part to reveal those eyes, what dark treasures do they uncover? You do not relent, and another crash is set into motion by the flurry of your fingers, until you're buried by arpeggios, until the notes run out like blood from your wrists.
In the end, there's a silence.
A solitary tear drop hits the keys and seeps silently between the black and the white. You close the piano's fallboard and lock it for good.
Another tear drop hits the sand faraway, and it stains its whiteness in the darkest shade of black.
