As I plop down on the over-stuffed rose-tinted antique love seat, childhood memories dance through my imagination, creating a comforting yet unbreakable bubble, until reality's sharpness stabs the unfamiliar world into several suds of disillusion. Intensely fixated on a pleasantly plump picture of an eight-year old girl, with stringy hair the color of frozen lemonade, and big cow-brown eyes, I twist my questioning face into a wrinkled raisin trying to recall child-like senses. I am this girl. I vivdly remember wearing a familiar itchy hand-me down bright red Christmas sweater with a sewn on grass green tree that clung to the rusted metal bells and cube shaped gifts by worn out threads. Concentrating fully on the one-finger notes of "Rudolph", I look as though I am pondering the meaning of life. Saddened for the loss of my precious child-like innocence, I divertingly lower my plain brown eyes with the memorable piano picture back into the book of memories- the book of feelings. Playing the piano had always been a personal expression as well as a way to reward myself with a unique talent that I sometimes shared with others. Surprisingly, I found not only do I still intensely enjoy commanding the glossy keys to compose diverse musical phrases, but seemingly manifest my world around the simple yet indispensable parts, which, when put together properly, mold the very shape of my soul.
Sturdy, thick, brass strings hold forever firm and unstretchable-as do the proper values my parents tenaciously instilled. Soft yet powerful wooden hammers keep my morals in check producing many different tones as life always tests the very beliefs I uphold. Slick brown wood, polished with clear alacrity, smooth curvaceous designs, reveal all of the challenging experiences I have been a part of, and which make a well rounded individual.
Black and white, wrong and right, sit at rest waiting for a hand to strike the very decisions with immediate repercussions.
