The Troubled Pianist

[Enough.
She's sick of this.
Constant movement, constant stress, constant disaproval.
Fuck. She's been working her ass of ever since she was young.
Tears form in her eyes as she writes this-
She swallows the gulp in her throat-
battles them from running down her face.
There she is, one might think as they watch her, happy, at peace with herself.
How wrong they are.

Why must she torture something she first wanted to pick up as a hobby.
It's not a hobby anymore. It's not love.
She hates this shit now- pressured to do it- to finish it.
All the dictated pieces- played as the composer intended- strictly formulated by the notes written on the paper.
Just once she'd like to lose herself in one of her pieces- but she has no time.
No time to explore the beauty of this instrument she was once attracted to.

To calm her emotions, she thinks of him.
He'd want her to finish- get it over with- put her mind at ease.
But he's not here.
She feels as if she started a circle- caught him in the same trance.
The same work ethic she now despises.
He thinks he enjoys it (in all honesty, she hopes he does).
She blames herself.
Is it worth it- will it be worth it at the end?
No one knows.

Let him make the choices for himself, she can only but encourage him.
Hope he won't lose himself, his 'self', his autonomy, and personality.

A man once said his longest successful relationship has been with his work.
Is it possible to feel love to the physical, cold, and materialistic as pects of life, rather than reflect it towards another individual?

She misses her connection with him.
They're drowning themselves in work.
Communists.

She waits for an end. Imagines and end.]