A/N: This is from Kagome's point of view. It's an AU in the modern time. I am dedicating it to my friend, Dani, and her love for drawing. If you ever read this, I think I know how you feel. No editing done what-so-ever. I'll go over it later. Please critique because I need feedback. Flaming is encouraged because then I'll now it's really bad. I'm sorry if Kagome's a little OCC. I suppose this could be an original piece seeing as it has no relevance to Inuyasha except for his features. ::sigh:: I tried.

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha, nor do I own professional piano skills although I do have a piano at home…

Passion Talk

I love playing the piano.

People always tell me I have an exceptional skill but I fail to see the uniqueness of my movement. Performing to me merely symbolizes my feelings, my life, my soul. It is a way of expressing thoughts without the words because language restricts our minds. There can't possibly be a word for every single idea in this world and even if there were, not everyone would interpret it correctly.

I play to explain, to reveal, to enlighten. My heart soars with the music and flutters around the keys, helping me along. Can't you see that? Can't you feel that?

Sometimes I refuse to allow others to listen to me. Some think I'm snotty and too proud of myself but cannot support their claims because everyone else believes I am perfectly angelic and benevolent. I let them. Who am I to change another's opinion?

I only know what I believe and I believe there are times when I can not bare my soul to the world. Everyone has secrets and people express them in different ways. Many do so by writing but I feel it isn't enough. To free myself of the weight, I plunk at the ivory white and shadowy black. What else can I do?

There are those who steal a glance at the forbidden. They watch my naked heart plunge into the depths of an ice-cold ocean, swimming with the water, telling the fish everything. It pains me to see them and I try explaining the sensation I need to experience alone. They brush it off as nothing simply because they think I wouldn't mind.

Can a person really be that flexible? To not care about anything?

If one can, it certainly isn't me. I do mind but I need someone who understands. I need someone who feels the same as me.

I walk through the carved brown doors of the art gallery. There is a young man there, around my age. His white hair floats lightly around his face and he stands in front of a half-filled canvas. No, he isn't standing, he moves with fury, with rage, with passion. His body makes long strokes appear as if from nowhere.

I watch him and understand. I watch him and move in… to "talk".