I have left the life of what I have self-titled, the soldier's life.
I have left many.
I have gained little.
But the piano plays on. Each key, madly praying to be hit by the index, by the ring, by the middle, or the end. Like an act of sexual betrayal, the piano and the hand spew out music like a dirty orgy. I cannot stop the piano.
I am either a soldier, or I am an artist. I cannot be both. My body is designed to be a soldier, and my mind that of an artist. Until I am prepared to face one or the other, I will remain this dichotomous, depressed separated man of slowly depleting fortune.
I ask for no responses, no sympathies, no recognition. I write because I am stopped if I do not. And until the piano stops playing, the madness that now consumes me, must go on. It must.
...
~M

























