I always sort of wanted to try making music. I have honestly no experience in it, it's such a mess to even begin as someone who knows barely the basics aside from exposure to listening to so much over the years. It still makes no sense when I pick up the piano even now and I sit there for hours trying to decipher what keys sound like the tune that came to my mind somehow. I kinda just started humming things when it got hard to figure out, so at least it was there. It still existed, recorded as a barely in tune hum, even if it was messy and my voice is so raw and untrained. I hate it as much as I need it. It's a sinking presence, clawing at my mind, demanding to be real. The piano mocks me for trying to touch it. It tells me the hours I put into the keys will bloody my hands before I could ever comprehend it. What key is it, what dawned note sounds so right. No it's all wrong, every bit is wrong. I might as well make nonsense worse than a cat who decided to make the ivory stones my belovedly hated sitting place. The draw of the string punches down with the resonating arrow of sound. The world is silent and the song takes every other sound. I hate that I love it. Even if I never quite learn it, there it sits ever patiently to be played.