Drama, drama and melogadrama

I was cleaning the terrace today. Stopped now and will do it in bits since I cannot throw all the things away I'd like to at once.
It is also a disgusting job, all that pigeon shit.
I put some spikes on the edges and now I don't have to hear the pigeons when I sleep.
I was standing one leg on a veranda, one leg on a stair, scrubbing with my right hand and holding a soap-ammonia solution in the other.
Some background music was building a soundtrack of poo cleaning. Apart from the fact that the background must have been most possibly Pachabel.
There I discover my neighbour built a cute little isolated house in the garden to play the cello. I immediately became interested in this stranger. If he lives alone, or if he has a husband or if he is married to a woman or worse, with children and poor man needs the retrieve of music to feel close to something.
In any case it reminded me it's been a long time I don't practice guitar. I gave up the moment I realised that book was not going to teach me to get used to different positions. I have to get a teacher ASAP.
Then started thinking how much I admire people who can paint, write or make music. It is plastic, so full of meaning. Specially painters. Be able to say so much in just a few traces...
I got over the fact that I am sensitive instead of smart, I guess I cannot change my heritage of sleepy, totally resigned braincells. Wonder what makes me always so unsatisfied, where all my dismay, all my anxiety comes from. And alas, I am still quite conformed, and therefore unhappy.
I look at this neighbor playing cello, his eyes closed, the time he will spend concentrated in little moves that make such art... I see talent and try to look for mine. No particular one. I always think I can work on that. But I am getting older and my life so lame and event less.
Ay!

Today's feelings:
Little, I knew it was going to be an apathetic winter
I miss some moments with some people. But they will never be there. That's called melancholy...