At least I had learnt that once one star of doing is consoled with, perhaps contemplatively short but presently ancient, time in-the-doing, they seem consoled by the art and the player itself to some sense, no matter a longing - like strings become easier to play and you, at one last, notice a wallpaper of ash polished oak that's a flicker at the end of your mind. And eyes remain dull and untouched, but a purpose of doing flutters solemness itself in the painting of time.
But as I've mentioned ancient, a sole must know; so how do we start?
Stop worrying about what you're not feeling. The irony of longing for what allows you anguish compels a religion of fear of who you would be without such anguish, for it is what you have known for time too long. What you're feeling...and let yourself feel it, as I stare into the ceiling up beneath me.