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All of a sudden it hit me. It just isn't worth it anymore for some reason. I never cry, but there I was, crying at this realization. I was starting to think that I was being a hypochondriac with my anti-depressants and that I wasn't really so unstable any more, but right now there's no doubt in my head. I got the flashbacks too. The things that make me feel like it doesn't really matter. "Would you shut up with that noise!" That hurt me more than anything else that bitch could have said to me.

Because I knew it was true.

I knew it, as much as I'd been lying to myself about it for as long as I can remember, it was true, and even though I hated it I was finally forced to believe it. It was just noise. I was just noise, nothing more. I never had believed it before until that moment.

And so were do I go from here, basking in this realization? I can't quit, even though I've got no dedication, too much has already been invested to stop it all now, but there is that sense of waste I get every time I think about it. If I ever loved anything, it was that.

But it's becoming more an more apparent and obvious that my blood isn't red anymore. What happened to me, that all or sudden, the only thing that had ever meant anything, lost it's eminence? It means nothing to me now.

The love of my life was always that thing of wood and ivory, metal and felt, embossed with a golden name that watched over me and protected me from it's vantage point in the dining room.

I remember when it used to frustrate me so, until I learned how to make it love me: love it.

They always said that my most emotional time was when I was perched there with the 10 extensions of my soul in their natural place, doing the only thing that I ever seemed to be able to do well enough for some type of honorable mention. But not anymore. I remember when I was in grade 9 and I would home from school and just sit and improvise for gorgeous hour upon gorgeous hour, mindless ness, but beauty in it's own right. After completing a so-called masterpiece, I would always gasp, or at least take a deep breath, depending on my feeling at the moment and say, "Now it belongs to the ages." And it was never to be recreated. What the "Ages" have of me. . . I want it back. I'm starting to think that I may have used up all my love and devotion and faith in myself. The "Ages" now own it. If anyone can tell these "Ages" anything, tell them I want my masterpieces back.

Nonsense.

But now I look back on what was once the livelihood of a child and see only a bloody muse- massacre. And that is what kills me. No matter how hard I try, I'll never be there again, I can't get it back. . . Maybe it was never there, but it really feels the contrary.

I still have the desire, but not the true need for it, and I am half-heartedly self-serving. I won't get anything unless I really need it. I need to figure out how to need it again, and as much as I need to, I think that will always be one of those unfulfilled needs.

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