Often Up

Before everyone else, because I am still up... because I'm incorrigible and have no off switch. Words are often my only companions. Polymorphic ones. Changing and being changed, while I fret out the keys playing on the board.

So much quieter than a piano.

Though I still wish I had access to music the way I had. Once upon a time, I was a flautist, and could play arias that longed and soared: "What beautiful tone," one judge said, "but you need to focus on theory."

My mechanics (as always) needed a little work. I've never liked to practice. I could fake the expression of music much better than my ability allowed me to. I exploited emotional resonance to peddle my notes. I spoke to the heart, not the head.

Though I haven't picked up the instrument in years, I think I am still using wind to make an impression. The intangible remains my greatest tool. Things are working out.

I am located in the centre of a viable nexus now because I can breathe out, and shake the air with my lips and tongue. Make sound. Vocalize. I have done my best to be as charming and quick and affable as I can in recent weeks. Decisive and resolute when the other systems fail. Organize to materialize.

And here I am, fretting and planning, when most every one else is asleep. Now that I am my own instrument, I think I've been roped into practicing by default. The end result is that I can talk to the head as well as the heart.

All these little compartments, up in Plato's realm of the Good, humming like a little chorus.