Piano Aphasic

I've decided that I must have something like piano aphasia.
I haven't learned a new song on the piano in two years, and it's been even longer than that since I studied it on a regular basis (some quick mental calculations tell me it has been something like five years- but maybe only four). Still, I have kept certain beloved songs in my memory, so that my fingers won't completely lose the touch: the Titanic theme song, Ballad of Love, La Valse d'Amelie, L'Onde d'Espoir, There Can be Miracles, Moonlight, El Caballero del Bosque, Cloudy, and a certain hymn my mother loves. That exhausts my repetoir. Nine songs. That, plus some theoretical knowledge of music on my part and some very nice memories are the extent of the money my parents poured into lessons at the Academia de la Musica in our little town for five years.
And the worst part of it is my current relationship with that beautiful instrument, the piano. You see, I'll sit there, and want to express my soul; know, in fact, that I COULD express my soul on the piano- that's what music is good for, after all, especially the piano's subtle modulations- but, in the end, unless one of my nine songs says it all, I cannot say anything. It is frustrating.
I think this is what it must feel like to be an aphasic. You KNOW that the possibility of saying what you want is there. You might even know what you want to say. You know that, once, you had the linguistic ability to start saying stuff, even if you didn't know yet, quite what you were going to say. But suddenly, you can't. The ability is gone, and you're left, struggling frustratedly with yourself to no avail.
So I have dubbed myself a piano aphasic, doomed to listen to other people speak and hope that they might say, by chance, what my heart wants to.
over 'n out.
E.O.