morning howls

I.

I love music..how could I not?

I must confess that the ones who love music most in me are my hands…They play with it, and when they don't play, they beg to.

I remember a lapse in my life not so long ago, when my feet begged me for movement…

”I don't know how to move, I don't know where to go”

I repeated to them…

“ask your eyes, they are the ones who always give us direction”

they answered.

And so I did, but I received no sign.

So I told myself: “if my eyes can't guide me, something else will have to”

And then…

the music…

And then…

my hands.

Moving is one thing and heading somewhere is something else entirely.

I learned that the ones who lead my way are neither my feet nor my eyes. It has been my hands with their music.

I dare say that my transcending is a synesthetic phenomenon, where my hands see the way as they move.

Because they touch it…

because they smell it

because they feel it.

My feet are serving masters and today, in a present that no longer escapes me, my lungs have joined the rhythm.

Miles Davis visited my ears that night on my way home through the underground world of the New York subway. It was something intensely harmonious. I remember that moment as “the great sigh”, the day I decided to write this that I am writing in a distant instant, and that lit up in me the longed-for freshness my senses feel when they are open, at last, to be whatever they want to be and not only what I have told them to be.

Music opens portals like paintings, which don't show us what is seen, but what lies behind what we see.

While the lungs breathe what the ears pulse. My shoulders whisper to me: “at last, at last you are truly free”.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟