STREET LIFE

It feels as if the room has filled with sunlight dust and the smell of the iron that was just used to press the curtains. Everything sounds a bit homely: as if a person simply decided to do something themselves - not because they had to, but because they wanted to. The sound is a little uneven, like the edge of fabric cut by eye, but that's the charm of it. Fingers stumble over the strings, as if searching for the right mood between "okay, let it be" and "oh, I got it." The music smiles - without words, without loud meanings, simply in time with inner peace. Somewhere in the background, applause erupts, and it feels like a standing ovation for everyone who has ever taken on something new, not knowing if it would turn out beautifully. And even if it's a bit crooked in the end, at least it's my own - handmade, like a warm sweater with one short sleeve.