Comfort is a personal subject; it can derive from two sources: from the familiarity of certain situations or from the

calm nature of having control. I never have control, and the world constantly changes around me, and for that I am overwrought, I am fatigued, I am enfeeble, and I am enervated, but most of all I am disheartened. In truth, I am never comfortable; I am in an amaranthine state of inquietude, but as the French say Cest la vie. Through my personal viewpoint I am a failure, and some of the others around me are too undiscerning to completely understand that. It veritably, is not their faults, as intelligent or perceptive as they may appear, I am in effect, an almost flawless liar, and that has been one of my problems. I dissemble my most precious emotions and thoughts, and to my dismay, I am without reason why. I do not believe myself to be selfless to the extent of protecting others from the my inexplicable lack of verisimilitude, nor do my thoughts lead me to believe that I am so nefarious that I would lie exclusively to agonize those I care most about. My trepidation is borne through my bte noire: to be a nonentity, a nobody, an insignificant name on an inestimable list of ciphers. I would be presumptuous to feel that it renders me even the slightest unique, but as I earlier stated Cest la vie, to be unique is just that, to be unique, to be divergent in a mediocre world where everyone is interchangeable. In somber actuality, my existential crisis is among my most unremarkable occurrences, importuning me to be cognizant of my uninspiring being. This ineptitude manifests itself in each enterprise I transact: my educational studies, my athletic endeavors, and in my musical etudes it concentrates itself so well that Ive intermittently considered abnegation, without exception each occasion nebs with my realization that music is appended to me, joined to the point of inseverability. Upon the instant my fingers make contact with the keys of my piano, I am slightly relieved, but in tandem disquieted, contented with by the contact and timbre of my music, meanwhile jaundiced by my own human ways. My disillusionment stems from a couple things: it stems from my lack of originality, and how every melody I come up with is just a variation on a melody Ive heard in my life, as well as from my inability to play the melodies I lucubrate to the same appetency as the abundant recordings I auscultate. This despondency finds remedy in reflection upon others, for in my study I havent found a completely new piece of music, but I have found innumerable people who find my interpretations consummate, and my compositions immaculate, they act as the indispensable aid to my stigmatic talents. My presentiment regarding life is a melancholic one granted, however my close friends are so recherch, and exceptional, that they manage to lift my disconsolate spirits. My uninterrupted disquietude is actually intervallic by the compassionate tenderness my friends allow me, for which I am truly grateful. They embolden my existence, vouchsafing it some consequence, and that to me is the epitome of gifts, and the paramount of human power, and for that I am appreciative and indebted to them; and this debt, gratefulness and appreciation is not stressful, it is consoling, I would even say comforting.