Think like a butterfly

Another day begins, and here I am, a walking paradox set to a Chopin soundtrack. My thoughts race like Kapustin’s intricate passages, a whirlwind of ideas that rarely touch ground in reality. It’s exhausting, really, like the aftermath of a passionate rendezvous – mind buzzing, body spent, but what’s actually accomplished? Sometimes it’s the miracle of new life, other times just a fleeting moment of pleasure. The weight of potential parenthood looms large, a symphony I can’t quite compose in my head despite my knack for mental simulations.

This morning, the streets were unusually quiet. No partied-out souls decorating the sidewalks, no smokers painting the air gray. For a moment, I wondered if I’d stepped into an alternate universe, only to realize – oh, right, it’s only 7:30 AM. The world before coffee, who knew?

I used to be that guy, you know? The one hitting the gym as the sun rose, fueled by a cocktail of lukewarm water, vitamins, and fancy-sounding supplements. Now? Summer’s heat has turned me into a wilting nocturne. My energy-boosting elixirs have run dry, and reordering feels like composing a full opera – overwhelming and easy to procrastinate. If only my favorite health store had the convenience of a streaming service, always there when you need it.

But here’s a bright note in my morning melody – my wife, bless her, chauffeurs me to work despite her pregnancy queasiness. I resisted at first, playing the considerate husband, but the heat wore me down. Now I find myself in the passenger seat, Kapustin’s Toccata filling the car, my hand in hers. It’s a moment of stillness in our duet of anticipation and change.

Funny how perspective shifts. Those construction workers and morning commuters I used to grumble about? Now they seem like fellow musicians in life’s grand orchestra, each playing their part.

Today’s payday, but the excitement feels muted. I miss the allegro con fuoco of my big tech days – the rush, the complexity, the feeling of creating something monumental. Now, work feels like a languid adagio, and the fear of never recapturing that tempo haunts me like a persistent minor key.

As I ponder the day ahead, I’m reminded of those modern classical and jazz pieces that end on unexpected chords. They resonate with me – a polished exterior hiding a tumultuous interior. It’s as if these composers peered into my soul and transcribed what they saw into music.

So here I am, setting off into another day of my personal sonata. Will it be a triumphant march or a melancholic nocturne? Only time will tell. But as any good musician knows, it’s all in how you play the notes you’re given.