The piano that plays on its own

There are many notes to a piano. The white teeth and the black in-betweens provide the perfect avenue for a mind's release. Each note has its significance and in weird ways melodies, compositions give respect to each and every note played by the wooden piano. This piano is in a room in a place no one ever goes. It has a musky smell and a dirty dark look and a layer of dust that settled on it since it is touched by no one. It's hard to find a place such as this one to put a piano nowadays and leave it there untouched, undisturbed and without reason. But this is a peaceful place, almost surreal and the light that permeates the room only illuminates the old piano to make it look grander than its humble assembly. Inside this room, every furniture is parched with only dirt to quench their thirst and the piano certainly needs more, quivering in the cold room at night. In time, the angels of logic, supposed to oversee the world, finally ignored this place ultimately as no one goes there.

In a night of dreadfulness, a note resonated from this room. The piano had begun to play. It added a note to another and made a melody to play. Growing ever confident, the old piece of oak decided to hold a few notes into rhythms of thum thum thum and strung a few melodies into a composition that glittered. Then it mixed compositions together and melodies to complement and then it started to dance around in happiness as cold chills were no longer the omnipresence in the room; it was now music.

Aside from small bouts of bitter wind that blew in, at least life had found its way.

I haven't given up on futility

The years have gone in a whisper. boys have grown to men. some boys remain lost in their worlds and this is the story of a misunderstood tootus. The name of the boy was not an important fact, the things he did was a proverbial mess. The things he didn't do, however, is the story that goes on..

Giving up has a lot of disguises. It can come in delusion, in admission, in subjection and that's about it. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. But what if life gives you apples and uses it to poke you in the eye or takes it away before you take a bite? Do you admit that the apple is beyond you? Do you accept that life is unfair? Do you want to believe the apple has a worm in it? Do you want to give up? It is very easy to give excuses for failure and it is almost natural to give up on anything under the sun. All you need is a mask and your on your way to completion. However, even as I know the apple is unreachable, I admire it for its beauty and I haven't given up on the day I can have it. In truth, the apple might have been eaten by someone godly, or thrown away and destroyed by a apple-hater, but you hope that life doesn't give up. Even in the meandering passing of time. Many laugh at the spineless waiting for a miracle as akin to waiting for death itself. Many have their hopes extinguished in the harsh realities of reckoning. I myself had many decisions to make when I was forced to be a man. I made all of them under influence, and many of them I feel failed even though others deem it a certainty or even success. From now on, Mr Me will follow my heart for once in my life as its the only source of pride I can muster that is truly mine and isn't that worthed dying for?

Even so, apples are beautiful. They give a good crunch. I love them for their smooth exterior and a rock center. And I know not being good enough is going to be a self-sustaining problem. I am going to continue to wait. Progression is but a means to say you have moved on, and the proverbial thought of greater things in the future might just be a pipe dream that no one actually cares and just mumble for the sake of feeling important and relevant. I will be irrelevant, but I will not give up on the things I want. If the world wants to blame me, go ahead. The heart has already lost its fullness. It's shine has already been battered in rain and spites of aggression. No one else knows the loneliness of embracing futility. I haven't given up just yet.

You said it wasn't true (part 2)

The pot of happiness of a town was brimmed in waves of euphoria. The prodigal son had returned home and he was the man he set out to be. Bruised in the heart, battered in his smile, a solemn young lad was the product of a rigorous regime. Or at least that was what Cloud thought.

He carried his gunnysack and buster sword and had setted out for the home that he left behind years ago.

Years ago, he was told that being a soldier was like being a puppet of Shin-ra. he was told it wasn't true that Soldiers were honourable as they should be. His old man, normally a jovial man, angered him with a serious tone and this quote and he never talked to him for the following days that passed before time and mutual love washed away their enmity. But now, Cloud was the man the old man didn't envision. He was the pride of many. The old man was wrong.

Cloud remembered happy times in the town, sharing time with his guardian, Yuhuan, doing the laundry and watching puppet plays and old man who took him to everywhere to visit even though he wasn't like them. He was no longer angry with the old man but still didn't understand why he would hate the idea of being in the military so much.

Cloud had since forgotten much about Midgar, about the atrocities that occurred and the name Sephiroth was far from his mind. However, avoidance was never the answer. Sephiroth had struck again.

The town that laid before Cloud was no longer that of a jovial one, but of a dead one. Nothing stirred in this wasteland of red. The usual laughter was gone and no one was alive. It was a dead town. Happiness seemed so far away.

Cloud, confused as he was shocked, didn't know the culprit of this massacre. Pangs of sickness wrenched his stomach and uncontrollable tears started to well up his eyes as he lost control of his legs and fell on his knees. Losing control in a bitter wasteland was the only solace that accompanied him. His life, his past were all erased in a moment's madness by a man. Sephiroth.

He looked around and a sense of familiarity struck him in the mind. A piercing pain engulfed his enclosed mind and he was made to scream and howl in agony as hard facts were forced back into his thoughts as if coerced by an unknown force. Flashes of past memories of trees, branches, smell of the old oak came to his consciousness and he could see a white light ahead in an imagined world that seemed to bear answers to all his agony and pain. It was a blurry sight and he strained to get a clean look at the white light but it was not defined as most things were. Everything started spinning around in a whirl and he felt the ground beneath him open up and he fell continuously into a black hole. Suddenly, he woke up and he was on the ground, with a bad migraine and a nightmarish sight that didn't disappear even after a moment's unconsciousness. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes as he got up to his feet and walked shaking all over towards the battered place. The houses were destroyed in a fiery storm of emotions and what's left were messed up corpses and remnants of glass doors or shards and wooden pulps that were furniture.

Revenge was the blood that was spilled and it was all on the ground.