Firstly, I'd like to thank my parents. That's right, my parents. For killing my peace. My potential. So. Truthfully, I do get into my music. Way into it, when I'm really feeling it, when I'm really feeling emotional or passionate. You'll see me sway. Funny thing is that I never do it on purpose. I don't sit there playing and say to myself, "Sway." For some reason, if I'm feeling feeling it, it just moves me. Literally. Like my teacher says, a good pianist doesn't play music with her only fingers. And sometimes, when I'm in that really intense state when I'm really into a piece that I have memorized in my fingers, that causes me to be filled with emotion in my heart, I actually start to play with my eyes closed. I never do that shit on purpose either. I do it without even realizing it, until I finish or I mess up, and then I open up my eyes. I don't think it ever happens when I'm conscious of someone else being in the room, because it only occurs when the music is all I'm aware of. It feels like coming out of a daze. I guess I could say that it's my favorite kind of high. Deviating a little. After a life of being controlled, I do certain things now, my little "rebellions," just to have a little sanity, to have a little sense of control, even if it's stupid and over the tiniest thing. Why will I say a white lie? Because I need to reconfirm the fact you can't control what I say, think, or know. Thank God. A random thought from past experience: why did I choose to "get lost" in that mall convention in Canada when I was 11? Honestly, I did it for the sole reason of getting away from you, Mom. You were trailing me, when all I wanted to do was walk around with my cousin. So I hid in a booth, and when you passed, I ran the other way. When you were worried for two and a half hours, Vida and I chilled from booth to booth. Maybe you shouldn't have trailed me. So why do I practice the piano? Not only do I love it, but it's something that I have control over. And you don't. Both of you. You don't even play music. Do you sing? You try. Guitar? Drums? Nothing. I'm blessed. Where did I even get this shit? It obviously wasn't from you. Thank God. Literally. This shit is from God. So music is mine. My music is mine. Tonight, after a lot of hard thinking that came out of the inspiration that is Emmy Rossum, I broke down a little. I lost faith in the life I have now and began down that ridiculous road again of, "What if I never went to this high school?" "What if I stayed with Ms. Maria?" "What if I auditioned for the Pre-College Division of Juilliard?" "What if I spent all this shit time studying by practicing the piano instead?" Fucking What Ifs. But I came to the conclusion, after regaining my sanity, that one of THE most important things of my life, my small group of best friends, came out of that high school. I couldn't trade them for the world. For nothing. Not even for a musical career. I'd give up my musical talent to have them in my life. Needless to say, I was feeling stressed. By weights that I tied onto myself. So the solution? Obviously I needed to touch the ivories. Relax a little. So I upped and left the computer. And sat down. And started working on memorizing the Ravel Sonatine that I love so much. First movement? Down. Just a few technique difficulties that will fix themselves with practice. Second movement? Working on it. Arduously. Got a few of the beginning measures in my fingers. I like how my teacher described this piece. It's light with this feeling in the luscious harmony that I can only describe as "a spring in the step." My teacher said that she pictured a little French porcelain doll (since Ravel is a French composer) doing a dainty dance on a furnished dresser in front of a grand mirror. I smile when I have that picture in my head. It's cute. So I play. The whole first page, having a little trouble retaining the notes in the last line. Trying to cram notes into my head from the first line of the next. There's this one stupid phrase that keeps jolting me. This one damn chord that I keep playing wrong. I'm in my daze and then all of a sudden, my ears are shocked and it's frustrating beyond hell. So I keep playing. The same phrase, over and over. Seven tries, seven failures. Damn. So I start from the beginning. By the second line I'm in my daze again. And then that damn chord comes back. Which was followed by a rude, booming sound that made my heart jump because I wasn't expecting it. It was loud because I was playing pianissimo, because I was so in tune with the soft notes, because I was in my daze, because I completely forgot that my father was sitting on the couch, previously engrossed with tennis on the TV. But now he was sitting there with the TV off. The sound that made me jump was the phrase, "You're sleepy," coming out of his mouth. I looked back at him with a fierce anger that almost showed in my eyes. Almost showed. Thank God it was "almost." -mockingly- I'm not ALLOWED to show any kind of discontent... or anger... or hate. Anger for scaring me. For being rude. For interrupting. For fucking listening. Did I give you permission to listen? It's my music, I'm making it, I never meant for you to hear it. So why are you listening? Why are you interrupting me? You don't deserve to hear it. I snapped a quick, "No." From then, my daze was gone. I finished the piece, not caring to memorize anymore. And then when I finished, he had the ignorance to pipe in again with a, "You should stop. It's getting late." I fucking hate that. That. When I'm about to do something, but right before I do it, someone idiotic like my dad mentions it, and all of a sudden, I am no longer following my own will but his. I closed the piano, shoving my books and papers onto the bench. And leave. And type this. I fucking hate this. "Grow, my dear flower, grow." Inspiring words. But it's fucking hard, Ms. King, so fucking hard.