All Fingers and Thumbs.

A really short story.

“Seriously, are you making that up as you go along? Thats amazing.” he said.

I thought to myself “Sure isnt that what life really only ever is. Stretching out your fingers and moving your hands in risk. Hopin’ to hit the right notes but knowing there’s a good chance you’ll fuck it up. Learning that you hear and see things differently when ya hit notes you don’t expect. Only really trusting the way you’ve played before – knowing full fuckin well that mastery of the past means nothing without throwing our hands into the future. Isn’t that what we did? Didn’t we do that with each other, for fucks sake? Isn’t that how we’re here?”

Ghostly shipwrecks of anger and regret rise up.  Seconds ago my fingers had trembled with the nervousness of a caress, anxious to play something that would move you. Now they where stunted, stilted tree trunks  fit to smash the fucking keys if only I could uproot them. Late evening sun pushed at the walls, its density filling the voids between my atoms,  fixing my human clutter in place. This was all wrong.

“Its not really that hard.” I replied

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