A Tipping Piano

I've never been one to cherish the angst and despair of the stereotypical tragic artist's life.  Unlike the standard composer's reputation, I'm fairly kind, love to nest & nuture, and do my best work when I've got lots of time, a roof over my head and food on the table.

That being said, I've spent my life in a precarious balance, teetering between working so hard to earn money to live that I have no time to sleep let alone write and working so hard on my music that I am late to work, late to be with my loved ones, late to life itself.  These last few years have been epic.

A year ago I moved into the house I'm renting now and in the process of moving in the back left wheel of the piano was broken off.  It's an upright piano that came from my family and my first piece of music (The Dirge - laughing as I type this as the piece was typical teenage angst) was written while curled over this piano's yellowed keys. The wheel was sheared off at the metal base and repairing it seems, for some reason, overwhelming.  Perhaps it's the size and weight of the piano or maybe it's the fact that the wheel's remaining bit of base seems to be seamlessly integrated with the inner workings of the piano and welding seems to be a part of the fix.

Regardless, the piano is propped up by a carefully knapped stone.  It doesn't seem to move and yet when I sit down to play it seems to tremble on some unseen level.  I feel like the piano is tipping, slowly obeying some force of nature that will result in the piano perpendicular to the floor, with me crouched, still trying to pull some sense out of the sounds the piano has left to make.

This is my life right now. Born up by makeshift supports yet still generating sounds. Tipping so quietly, so softly that the movement can't be identified and yet I'll know the imbalance for certain when I find myself on the ground.