My piano has become the only thing that understands what is going on deep within me. I sit with her and my hands translate my emotions for me. It makes its own sense right there at the piano.
And all the things I play, I refuse to call them songs because they're so different from songs, but all of this music I play is so amazing.

It's hard for my mind to make sense of my little compositions. They sound so tragic. Filled with sorrow, but hope at the same time. Like something that makes you smile even though it breaks your heart.

And while I'm sitting with her, I will look at my hands and be amazed that my mind is not controlling them. They are just floating around, letting me speak.

My hands don't tell me to stop feeling so sad, or to act like everything is normal, or to pretend that I am interested.
They aren't like my brain.
And I love my brain, but sometimes it just doesn't understand.
It doesn't understand that what is going on inside of me cannot be explained in a single definition of emotion.

My hands don't stick words with feelings. They make beautifully sad music that makes me feel better somehow. They don't question if I should be feeling like this. They let my emotions exist.

So it's just me, my hands, my piano. We sit around and have girl time and my piano is glad that we are best friends again.