My voice is wide open and spacious.Scattered notes dot the ceiling. Some perfect,others shards and dull spots. They careen and soar unbound.
I hear, "You can't sing your way out of a bucket." I believe this. It's safe, blue and silent on the bottom. Music washes over me like waves. I enjoy the water, but long to surf, riding high, crashing low, charting my own course.
I look up. The sky is a different blue, the color of a robin's egg. Clouds like waves crest the heavens. My heart persuades my mouth and I rise, claiming my joy. Notes are my surfboard. I ride high notes and lose my balance with sharps and flats. Occasional perfects center me. Scrambling and falling sweeten success. I float up and blend with the blue Divine.
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