09:29 - 10/9/26

hey guys!! i wrote this a few nights ago and i've been debating putting it on here but i decided i wanted to since my bestfriend said it was really good, eventually i will make a proper writing page when i also revamp the analysis page.,,,

please finish reading before you make any judgments as some things that you might not think are intentional actually are

I've always loved piano. watching as fingers dance across keys with mesmerising precision, each act practiced to perfection as any slight mistake would ruin the ruin the sound.

I watch, as practiced hands preform movemts so precise, so beautiful and they make something, they make something real and gorgeous, something that sticks with yoy even after the final keyt is pressed.

I watch and I focus on the hands as the music infiltrates my mind, leaving only the strongest thoughts left. their hands, they seem to fit perfectly to each key, they never go where they're not supposed to, they work as they should, and as reward they get to make something beautiful.

I watch my hands, by some instinct they mimic the movem nts on screen. they fail of course, I've never learned more than a few short melodies. my hands flail across the air, attempting vague movemnts in the style of the hands on screen, but the precise alludes them.

I don't have the hands for piano, I know this. no amount practice will make them slimmer, no amount of wanting will make them skilled or graceful.

I try other arts, I love them dearly, but love does not mean skill. I love to write, and I love to draw. no amount of practice of these will make my hands the way I want them either.

I type my thoughts, in attempt to quite them as replacement for the sound of keys dancing. however my hands to not fit to the keys I use instead, my fingers err and land misplaced, if only by a few millimetres, the wrong key is pressed downm, and mistakes riddle my thoughts. I imagine the clunking of wrong notes, ringing out in my ear, a reminder of my imperfect hands. a reminder that no matter how familiar or practiced I am, that my hands are still wrong.

I open my browser again, and I watch people play piano. god their hands are beautiful, dancing and preforming so perfectly, I keep my hands still tonight.

I shut my eyes, the music overtakes me again, and for a second I forget about everything I was so upset over, not that a second is something too easy to savour. and in my mind I see hands, they're mine but they don't belong to me.

I watch these hands, attached to my arms, attached to my torso and my brain, I feel them. I listen to the music and I imagine these hands feeling the keys, I wonder how it feels, to really play piano, to make something so beautiful, to be something so beautiful.

I quickly remember my own hands, they fumble like a newborn deer, skittish and placed in the unfamiliar. a clumsy doe stumbles around in my mind, it steps on loose wooden floor tiles, with every misstep, sharp and peircing notes play out, they only scare it more.

I do all I can to shake the snimal from my mind, and it works to the best extent it can.

I see pianos more often than most, theres a few in my school's music room and I walk past it every day. sometimes I even get to see people play.

I watch their hands, just as I do online. teenagers aren't the most skilled bunch, but even as I listen to their amateur preformances not meant for me I wonder if they know how lucky they are, that their hands fit, that they are way they want them.

I walk up to them and at their side, I take up the accompanying piano and my hands, slimmer that I remember, take to the keys with effortless skill, a beautiful melody rings out through the room and my fellow musician listens in awe. I walk away from the room and leave my fantasy with it.

I think about those hands in my day dreams, they are slim and smooth, they are perfect. they are sown onto me, like a Frankenstein made of envy, and they dance, they are gracious and careful and unbelievably coordinated, they are nothing like my real hands.

I look down to my real hands. they are larger than they should be for someone like me. I've had them my whole life yet they appear alien to me, like large misshapen pieces of clay pressed together, dotted with weird marks that can never be scraped away, I know they will never be the way I want, and I know I have to be okay with that.

I know my hands are not for piano.