Fantasies & Delusions

His fingers ran over the black and white keys. They pressed here and there, and each time a new sound would echo all over the place. There he sat, the notes flying to his ears and radiating from him at the same time. There are things that cannot be said with words. And he sat, and his body moved unconsciously, and he and his music were one same being. The notes spoke for him, they sang, and laughed, and cried. And he wasn't thinking anymore; he let himself go, his heart in his hands, his hands on the piano.

Images would come now and again; memories of the past, distorted pictures of events that may or may not have happened how he remembers. And his heart would shrink, and grow again; his hands metamorphosing every ounce of feeling into sound. Then wishes. Hopes. Pictures of possible futures, of possible outcomes; fantasies would strike and make him hold on to crazy desires. Daydreams based on deluded memories and coincidences.

But what, if not fantasies and delusions, is the fuel that makes the poet's soul work?

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