Somehow, I had taken the time to put tiny stoppers in all the appropriate places to dry the blood from every page, to keep the future safe. I thought it had disappeared- the movement in my hands to write, the stretch in my throat to sing. I thought I had quieted that wild part of me with a regular schedule. It never moved me, so I assumed I had put it away.

But it took a pin-prick to rupture the dam. Now, in colors and shades, that old ache grows in waves made swells by failure. The failure is on my part; I didn't consider I'd always be this way. I wouldn't grow out of the things I can't, but want to accomplish. Things I was meant to do became things I meant to do. I've overlooked each instrument I had carefully collected, especially myself. I've kept books for decoration and forgotten the smell of old paper and printing ink. I traded lyrics for emails and post-it notes.

I got vain. I lost weight. I counted the things I ate. I cut my hair in interesting ways. My posture slipped. I started eating sushi. I took the promotion. I got cats. Early to bed, early to rise. Dust began to collect on my heart and violin.