living with an anxiety disorder is loads of fun
A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
Just some context for below.
The piano looked like it was cut out of the golden room by a scalpel. It sat there, a precise black hole that drew the eye away from the light from the chandeliers, the carefully crafted opulence of the hall and mocked it with its simplicity. It was pure and demanding, and the most human thing in the mansion.
The room was otherwise empty. Alex sat down. This felt illicit, running her hand over the polished fall and lifting it to expose the pale, sallow keys underneath. Pushing down on one, on three was soundless, and she pushed her way to a slow, silent melody using her breaths as a metronome, and then stopped. Her frustrated fingers released a low D that hung in the air for too long, and there was a terrifying satisfaction found there. She began to play.
It was hesitant at first. Her brain and her tremulous thoughts had governance. But her hands soon took control, severed their strings and were set free. She played a popular tune first, and then a modern song, and then, confidence and curiosity rising, her hands danced across the keys to a song she had only heard as a child. The tune was folksy and naïve, and was small in its ambitions, but it rang from wall to wall of the gilded room, touching the light to lay it bare. The cornices, the filigree, the plaster, paint and shabby wooden floor. It was all base. It didn’t respond to her like this instrument, the piano that didn’t quite fit.
There was no imbalance of power here anymore. The piano was giving her back things she thought she’d lost, a different quality of light than what streamed through these windows. She freely gave it her memories, and a rare touch beyond the tuning up and the vain ditties that were the only things it knew. They were beyond the golden room now, and in a place that could have been, with a muddy heart but a welcoming hearth.
“Alex? Is that you?”
And now a hurried rise, the closing fall, and a cloth appearing in her hand. She started to polish again. The song was over.
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"Don’t wander outside in the middle of a war, you’ll get stabbed."
"Don’t join that weird religion, it’s an apocalyptic cult."
"You need to kill your creepy murderous day-old baby otherwise the world will end."
"Don’t revive me, I’m keeping the souls of 40,000 people free because of convoluted reasons."
God Xena you’re such a fucking know-it-all.