The Taste of Metal

yes, I put a picture of Miley.

I lay down on the cold hard carpet looking at the ceiling listening to something in person that I have never once experienced: perfection at first hand. My thoughts smear together like blood does on your skin when you are licking off a paper-cut. It kind of tastes like that too . . . that metal-like taste in my mouth. I cannot pin-point why, for I am only listening to a stranger from a faraway land play Chopin on his living room piano.

I am somewhere else though. I wonder where he is. I finally wake from my daydream bliss of up-most perfection to peak around the stairwell. What does this foreigner look like while such beautiful notes bleed from his fingertips onto the elephant tusk keys of the piano?

His eyes are closed. His feet are tapping. He rocks back and forth, like he is in a trance. It scares me and excites me at the same time.

This man is not from the United States. He comes from overseas. Yet he is right in front of me playing music that is timeless, and that exceeds boundaries of language and culture. Because, it turns out, perfection cannot be spoken, heard, felt, seen, or tasted. Maybe perfection is that moment in time when all of a person’s senses blend together and each one of the five senses is undetectable from the other. Maybe perfection is the time and space where nothing exists. Or everything exists.

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[Chris]

or perhaps where EVERYTHING exists?