I am here but I’m not really here.

I’m able to think but does that mean I exist?

I may walk but I cannot touch. I can speak but I’m rarely heard. Actually, I don’t remember the last time someone listened to me.

Here I am in this room. It has four walls and two big windows with worn out window-sills. The white paint is scraping away. The glass is old and it twistes the scenery.

The only comfort I have here apart from the ghostly light creeping in from the windows is a grand piano standing in the middle of the room.

Usually, I sit by the piano and lean on it trying to remember how playing it sounds. Sometimes, I just watch through the window. Days fly by, years and decades even but I am not old.