pedagogue by STALE

When I sat at this piano, I could feel my hands speaking for me. Crafting songs that expressed every drop of beauty and uncertainty my mind conjured up, a story written in melody. The safety of sound could take me elsewhere, somewhere I couldn't let my mind breathe, or think.

There was so much solace then, but I've exhausted my attempts. My hands aren't what they used to be, my body is weak and failing, my mind is getting to me. Years of begging myself to stray from filth and desire have left me tired; sick of lying to myself and others.

I'm a monster. I've always been a monster.

I live between dirt and scum feeding on scraps that I create in fantasy worlds, wishing to drench myself in the nectar of sin. My tired hands are clean there; I am exalted there. That place makes me feel clean amongst the presence of filth.

I'm sitting in a room staring at the piano, and the seat that has held innocent lives for what is now a lifetime. My hands aren't trembling while I write this, my mind is clear for the first time, I don't deserve to be afraid of what comes next. I am forever haunted by Matthew 18:6, the verse that promises me that heaven will never be my final resting place.

May my final words bring peace somewhere, for they do not bring peace to me.

Noise/Experimental
Brisbane
Australia