BETWEEN THE SALT WATER AND THE SEA STRAND

                   
                   Of the things either lost by me or stolen from me depending upon which me you ask , what has been the hardest to adjust to has been the music . A pain that is deeper and more chokingly silencing and that turns and twists the guts like a deer caught in barbed wire , the more that I fight it the more the ache fills my senses , the more that I grieve for the one thing that kills my pain .

                    The hours that were spent , hunched over an old guitar , ruining record albums by playing the same select parts over and over again , agonizing over the sounds I heard , frustrated at the ease and perfect grace of those magical fingers and the slow , clumsiness of my own .

                  All of my time was spent trying to live up to what I was supposed to be so that I could sit on that bed , that irritating , beautiful piece of wood digging grooves into my flesh hour after hour . Eventually it crept in secretly and without fanfare , my fingers caught on , they copied those notes in an awkward panicky way and then it happened. Though the spell remained it was one now of appreciation rather than envy . Success fuelled my enthusiasm and with practice came speed and with speed I felt my own cocky ease .

                Song after song , situation through experience , triumph after trampling I got better... and then , one fateful night , it was gone , the hours , the yearning and learning , the need and the speed was stolen , taking with it half of me including my left arm . So I sat for an eternity in a cold prison staring through the window bars for any sign of the man who had vanished until I heard the sound , the brilliant musical sound of the key to me prison , opening the lock and releasing thoughts of possibility again , an angel held the key and in my daze she said
               " Please , play my harp ."