I'm happiest when I'm with sprawled out in a weird position with a sketchbook, a pencil, and a playlist on repeat. I'm happiest when my hands start to hurt from staining my clean journal pages with my chicken scrawl handwriting. I'm happiest when I lose myself in a book. I'm happiest when I spend lovely late nights alone, or maybe with an hour-long phone call, making the nagging almost bearable. I'm happiest when I learn a new song on the guitar. I'm even quite happy when I'm at school, striving to ace a test, or trying to stifle my laughter during class, or bearing with unnecessary drama, but I didn't expect myself to get all worked up and bitter over a musical instrument deemed lovely in all its musical glory by thousands of musical geniuses. And indeed it is lovely and great and remarkable! I don't deny that, but the piano is honestly one of the deepest sources of my frustrations. Maybe I'm not on the right track of the learning process, or maybe I am what they say I am: lazy and unmotivated and no-good.
I'm no-good at playing, I know. I'm unmotivated as well. Yes, I'm lazy. My room is messy and I don't bother to clean it. Yes, I'm lazy. I sleep late and wake up at noon and sit around, waiting for brunch to be served. Yes, I'm lazy. I'm a couch potato. And maybe I am lazy. Too lazy, indeed, staying up until 2 am to studying for a long test. Too lazy, indeed, getting worked up over one low score. Too lazy, indeed, stressing myself over academics, trying to build up a report card that will make you happy. Too lazy, indeed, that I still don't feel good enough.
I don't know why I'm taking those remarks to heart. It bothers me that I do. Lately, though, I've been so frustrated. Imagine, taking lessons since 4th grade and I still can't even play a piece about "web-footed friends" or a mockingbird straight. I don't know to what extent I can stretch myself out this year.
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