Blow Wind

I walk the line between prodigy and master. And then I wake up, dust myself off, and put my little league trophy back on the shelf. The world is a large place with endless competition and I am the one getting played like a tuba. There is only one of me in a huge ensemble of drums and horns along with a few stringed instruments – how many depends on whether the goal is fighting or going on an emotional journey – all of which get to share a powerful presentation of notes collectively while I’m just blowing some dumb wind into the fray. Like how sheer curtains blow on a calm summer day when the window is open and you catch a breeze every so often but it’s not enough so you open the curtains and press your nose to the screen and there’s that smell of dusty old, musty old screen but it’s okay because it reminds you of summertime at the cottage. But my dumb wind blowing doesn’t drown out another big dull instrument beside me nor enhance the sound of music with a deep and lonely pitch, if you can call it that. I sound more like a moan or a groan, a bored person on the phone. I am how you imagine a whale would feel being hauled on a semi truck with some kid keeping it wet with a pale of water and a sponge – disillusioned. Still I continue to blow holes into the mixture of music and mayhem that you violins, horns and drum kits make. I have to because there is no music at the bottom of the sea, there is no wind on the floor of the ocean and there is no whale without my sound.