When she first moved to Berlin
Her new apartment was a hollow barrel
Not one piece of furniture stood
She bought a grand piano before a dining table or bed
She slept in her bathtub for two weeks
A white comforter and no pillow
Until she could afford a mattress
Artists suffer mainly because they prioritize
Art over body, art over mind
She makes music instead of sleeping
No lucid dreams or delta waves
She buys a synthesizer instead of the week’s groceries
No bread and butter
Just Chopin’s Nocturne in E minor
We make choices and choices make us
In the morning, I write at the kitchen counter
Stare at the flushed orchid, delicate and pink
Unaware of its beauty
I wish my effort could be so effortless
She scales the keys of her piano
Squints and sighs
“It is all so purposeless”
She is right
This is the goodness of art
No one point
No end goal
No final station
She won’t play in the Philharmonic
I won’t win a Pulitzer Prize
The only meaning is in the act itself
A feeble attempt to clutch purpose in the purposeless
Her fingers shaping sounds
My fingers forging words
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