Shining Silhouette

I wait alone in the dark, listening. My hands are trembling with anticipation, vibrating to the hypnotic beat of my heart. My feet anxiously drum on the floor, pattering a rhythm unfamiliar to me. My brain is whirling at maximum speed, pleading with me to begin. Yet I cannot.

I watch. My eyes drift along the landscape of my living room, sweeping past the throng of stringed instruments lined in a row, the pair of well-loved couches incessantly curtsying at one another, and the stack of music books balancing precariously in the corner. Above me, I hear my father pacing the floor of his office; it’s a quiet, comforting pattern. 

I close my eyes and begin to meditate. As I breathe, I feel currents of calming air fill my lungs. I exhale, willing my superfluous thoughts to follow my breath and evaporate into nothing. As my mind is cleared, I grow lighter, and I feel myself begin to float. I revel in this freedom, the wild liberty of the mind. I ascend, soaring to cerebral horizons far above my perceived mental limits, experiencing facets of reality I’d never dreamed of. I continue to cleanse my thoughts for a few minutes until I feel a pull from my body gently tugging me back, and I glide down into awareness. My mind is clear; I am ready.

My fingertips inspect the patterns of the chiseled white in front of me, tenderly tracing the black and white slabs. Each has a distinct character, charisma, and charm. I imagine the colors that will soon be woven, picturing shades of emotion fearlessly melding together. I consider for an instant, then I select my palette. I relish this moment, when the painting is still shrouded in mystery. Then, finally, I thrust open the door of my imagination.

It starts with one note: a low B-flat, resonant and strong, but susceptible to severe bouts of sentiment. A cluster from the upper octaves joins the mix, then tentatively makes its way down the glossy ivories. Tones mingle with one another, each combination adjusting the color. As the notes blend, they become spiraling lattices of harmony. Sound lingers in my ears for a moment, then curves past, dancing away to the peripherality of my perception. 

My hands move of their own accord, mutinously plastering the air with bundles of my most profound feelings. Sometimes, my inner thoughts are manifested so extraordinarily that I must sit in silence until I can fully digest the sensations. This period of introspection is excruciating, but I invariably continue, for I’m in an oasis of self-discovery, captivated to the extreme.

At this moment, my faults, my flaws, and my failures all disappear. The light of my imagination is enough to banish my darkest fears from the forefront of my mind. I no longer feel inadequate, weak, or broken; here, I’m strong and powerful, sheltered and secure. I cry as I come to this realization, eyes welling up with tears of relief. These drops trickle past my nose to the bottom of my chin, where they dive down to the warm embrace of my carpet-cloaked floor.

Music is my all, and I am my music. I am the fluttering birdsongs of the upper registers, the thundering growls of the rumbling bass, the triumphant trumpets of the middle of the instrument. The sound rippling through the room expresses the most intimate facets of my being. I am at peace. I am understood. 

Time is fluid, a silvery mercury that oozes down the meandering conduits of my consciousness. It drifts at its own pace, but as I play, it accelerates, spreading thinly along the walls of the abstract passage. As the night races by, I wish I had a larger supply. 

And in a moment, I find myself listening to the reflective echo of the last chiming note. My face is washed clean, my hands are relaxed and calm, and my brain finally is satisfied. My work is done. I stand up and turn on the lights.