Tense

Pianissimo. Relax. It must be barely audible, but fully heard. My body wants to be invisible and yet I’m seen. My fingers and wrists are doing their best, trying to make me disappear, but each hiccup rips my invisibility cloak open. Four hours I spend, five, six because it isn’t smooth yet. The tension in my hands won’t release—the tension in my mind clings to each rough burst of mezzo-forte in a snare drum roll that should be smoother than silk, thinner than cotton candy, less audible to the human ear than a dog whistle. My arms grow heavier by the millisecond, my mind tightens like it’s testing my blood pressure, constricting the steady flow of a drum roll that should sound as though it never began or will ever end. Hour seven approaches as I realize I have been holding my breath for the last six. No wonder I’m feeling light-headed. The drum roll of anticipation that should have preceded a great announcement has flattened the arrival of any triumph. My hands hurt, the joints in my fingers have to be forced open, slowly, through pain, and then cracked to straighten completely. Hour eight and I’ve stopped, but the tension saturates my psyche.