I don’t care what you say, it’s shameful for dust to settle on your keyboard. Just the same as if it were your coffee cup, guitar, or marriage, the neglect of these instruments of love shows the condition of your heart. I have a violin at home named Shannon and another named Rosie who ought to begin showing signs of age and wear from overplaying, but instead, Shannon would incessantly sneeze from her dust, were she a little girl, and Rosie would never forgive me for her uncounted days in her case under the bed, patient as Sleeping Beauty.
These are but just a few of the loves in my life that have become accustomed to the smell of cobwebs and stale air. If I were a mere object like them and all my contents on display like a children’s museum where all are welcome to come and touch, fiddle with the moving parts, and paint all over my interpretive pieces, you might see a “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign hanging around my neck, angel rays punctuated by the floating specks between my window eyes and my mind, and a heap of dust settled on my heart where neither I nor anyone else have been to visit for awhile.
It does not sing. It does not reverberate. Its finish would be peeling and flaking to the floor. I watched it from the rocking chair in my headspace as it deteriorated to this disfigured state, thumbing through the pages of an uninteresting book I don’t even care to know the title of.
So now – a key-strike compresses into the clacky-plastic slab, and now – the dust leaps from my heart as it begins to ba-bum. Slowly, weakly, yes. But if life can be re-awoken, if the air can be stirred even just a little, then it can steadily turn into a benevolent east wind. Window ajar, papers scattered about, and melodies echoing through the halls, along the garden, and flowing like the streams and rivers that would be honored to know my name.
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