Your fingers trail down the piano keys, even though 5 seconds ago you vowed to never touch the piano again after the one hundred fifty three auditions gone-wrong—not that you were counting.
But the instinct of a musician acts before your brain can refuse and you find yourself sitting on the rickety piano bench. It wails a melancholy creak, a testament to the time that you’ve sat here (and gave the seat a good hundred or so kicks).
Just a short song. Just one farewell song. And then I’ll quit for good.
You play a simple C minor chord, and suddenly, time slows to a still, as if it is pausing to listen to the song. The piano breathes life into your hands, which begin to tingle with the joy of playing the worn keys. The keys twinkle charmingly when pressed and your heart starts to flutter ever so slightly.
The notes reverberate through your body, and all notion of the world around you is gone. The roars of the cars, the drip drop of the leaking pipe, even the clutter you swore to clean but never did; they no longer existed in this world. It’s just you, the piano, and your song.
Your fingers cascade down the keys as your thoughts escape you. The day your grandmother bought you a piano. The piano, upon the first touch of its key, wailed a siren’s song. It was that otherworldly sound that made you so deeply enamored with piano. It was those rich sounds that made you want to spend each waking hour at the piano, playing one part of a piece to get it just right.
You remember the day you got into music school. You remember the day where during your performance, nobody clapped. The day where everything slowly turned gray, and piano was no longer piano. It was drudgery, pure drudgery, and it made you want to end yourself and that dread you felt when you saw the piano. The thought that perhaps, you and your song was nothing special. “Your artistry doesn’t make sense,” your instructor once told you bluntly, “and frankly, I don’t like your choices.” Play what we like, don’t be bold, stop experimenting; those were the unspoken rules of creating. And yet…create, create, create, they say. Create for us until your heart is poured out and there’s nothing left of you.
Now here you are; what you thought would be a short song turned into a never-ending ballad. Keys change left and right, purely based on instinct; you add dissonant chords most musicians would have nightmares hearing; the notes make no sense, and only add to the cacophony. A melody wails as the sounds sweep through the room. They are like sobs, echoing through the empty room, only for you to hear, only for you to feel. The richness of the cries, of the pain, make your heart swell. The urge to leave the piano is long-gone.
Let me play once more, your heart screams, Please, I want to play again! Even with that painful indifference the audience exudes, you still find your heart tugging you towards that lonely stage. After all, there were still so many more songs to play.
The sobs of the keys only seem to grow and grow. Play me, play me! But only you can hear these sobs. Only you know this pain. Nobody else is watching, yet you continue to play. You continue to play. And that’s what matters isn’t it? That you play, and only you play.
There is nobody else but you and the piano.
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