Opus 23, 36 and Donald’s Woes

Opus 23, 36 and Donald’s Woes

Opus 23 is playing again and yet again trying to put my ears and mind to a test of allegiance. Will I ever crack and spill to recurring ennui?

Not right now.
the right amount of solemn desolation dignified through gentle vibrations of piano keys. The only music that can bring me to prompt tears.

Still and all a pattern of staccato sound is resounding from the bathroom, it helps me think.

drip. drip.

“What have you done now?”
“for the love of God, have you not done enough now?”

I never knew it’s so painful to know that people you love could really hate you, hate you for allegedly hurting their heart so bad. Scarred as though for life. Tainted as though there’s no forgiveness to match its vice.plump.

drip. drip. driiip

I saw how the spotlight my father just bought for the house made the trees outside much more visible. I like it. I like seeing leaves in the dead of the night. I can now only hear drops of loose water from the tap on my sink.

I remember how Donald Duck would so much hate this. He would drive himself mad, trying to pull numb his senses and to muffle his ears. Draining blood from his face and straining his reddened eyeballs out trying to do so. It doesn’t sound so funny now.

I wonder what Donald would think, people for almost a century constantly laughing at his never-ending torments. Picked on by high-pitch voiced nephews, with rhyming names. Bullied by Squirrels. No one should be hated to want none of that, no matter how grumpy and forlorn, or broke you actually are.

I turned off Opus 23. After 36 plays. (not my all time record)
then I walked to the bathroom to screw the tap tight.

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