The Musician

Melancholy notes fill the air, a wave of continous harmonies. Music to some, random melodies to others. It is heaven to the pianist. For he plays his heart. He does not have a score. He needs no guidance.

His fingers dance upon the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

Rich chords, soulful phrases, everything flows like a stream. His life story. One day at a time, each note is its own. Stringing them together, they form a beautiful piece. Beautiful. A brief smile flickers across his face. Muscles tensed, he plays the music.

His fingers dance upon the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

Head tilted back, eyes upraised. It overwhelms him. His inspiration comes from within. It flows. It flows. Every stroke of the keys is a reward. Talented, he is described. Musical, he is praised. Emotional, some say. He plays from his heart. The room is filled. The room resonates. He is small, but he is the maker. The maker. The creator of the music.

His fingers dance upon the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

Subito. The style changes. No longer flowing, it is a parade. The systematic strike of the keys. One, by one. Savouring every note, it is peace and joy. The single notes ring true, it is bliss. His fingers slow down, the music falters, it fades. Chords. Chords fill the air. No longer single notes. Each chord tells a story. Each chord is an hourglass. A mirror unto which he peers.

His fingers dance across the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

Quickening the pace, accelerando. The pianist rushes forth, emotions spilling its banks. Uncontainable, uncontrollable. The gentle stream has become a rapids. Faster, faster. A waterfall now. He soars over the edge. Eyes closed, arms outstretched. He is invincible. Uncatchable.

His fingers dance across the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

He is home among the chords. The pianist lives, he breathes, music. Each note is a morsel, each chord a delicacy. Gourmet menu, everything is perfect. Everything is beautiful. Slowing down, the chords morph back into the original trickle. The great waters is no more. The sun beats down, his vision is a blur. The water has vanished, and with it…the music.

His fingers dance across the black and white ivories. Alone, he needs no one.

Does anyone need him?