Sunday, the 18th of May, 2014

As I sit at my desk, I wonder what to write about. Nothing at first springs to mind, so I look towards my empty in-tray and sit back and ponder. At the beginning, nothing, but then a spark. A very small spark at first, but nonetheless a potential for a bright flame. I then open my desk, pull out some manuscript paper, and begin to pen new melodies and harmonies.

Often, I wonder to myself what is the point. Yes, what is the point in inking all these melodies to page; when in reality it will forever remain a dream for my work to be performed. Continually doomed by the curse that is the unpredictability of a music career, these dusty parchments will ever build higher in their static piles. These piles will soon become stacks, and ever perpetuate a state of stationary being.

So I lay down my pen, close the lid to once more condemn the freshly written music to the piles of paper that carpet my study floor. That is it for now, the lonely artist ever locks the empty room that is his study in search of some freshly made coffee that is waiting for him in the kitchen.