No light, no light
Preface: Just a little bit quizzical
12: 20 p.m.
My fingers are not raw despite, the relentless hours of practice, but they are sore. My own music fills the small guestroom of my house where my father permits me to play as long as I keep it within reasonable hours. Well, all I can say is that I hope two in the morning is considered in within "reasonable hours". It's not like my father's there at night anyhow, or during the day, for that matter. It works out fine, though, on both parts. He likes to imagine he doesn't have children. I like to imagine that I live in my own world, where the only noise is a violin, where the only two people who live there are Quiz and myself. Sometimes, when I'm truly very still, when my eyes are closed, when my fingers are automatically moving to the tune of whatever song I'm playing, I almost can see that world as though it were actually there.
But then I'd stop playing. I'd stop because my fingers were too sore to continue, or because I had to eat, or because I had to sleep, or something else I probably would ignore if Quiz weren't there to tell me to do it. He always tells me that I take this too seriously, but I always disagree.
What's wrong with wanting perfection?