I clearly remember when I was seven years old: my mother was playing “Fur Elise,” and I was standing enchanted by the piano. All I desired was to create those same, melodious sounds. However, I had only recently begun learning piano; my ability to produce anything as marvelous as Beethoven’s masterwork was yet developing. Fortunately, the exquisiteness of his piece inspired me to continue my efforts, and music became not only my passion, but also a cherished medium for self-expression.
As I progressed from simple songs to classical and jazz compositions, my love for piano blossomed. I spent months mastering various pieces – one summer, a Prelude and Fugue by Bach, and the summer after, Chopin’s “Fantasie-Impromptu.” Today, the music I play mirrors the emotions on my mind. If I feel lighthearted, Jerry Lee Lewis boogies across the keys; when angry, Toccata in D Minor thunders from my fingertips. Indeed, here lies the greatest joy in playing the piano: it can express innumerable moods and tones that echo a pianist’s deepest sentiments. Nothing in the world compares to sitting at a piano on a rainy day, accompanying the pitter-patter with a bluesy melody.


My early passion for piano quickly effloresced into a more general love for music. I listen to my iPod wherever I go, and my playlist is often so engrossing, I have to pause and appreciate the music before resuming my task. Even as I craft this essay, Bruce Hornsby distracts me with his dexterity and musicianship. Still, I will always choose playing piano over listening to music. Letting my fingers grace the keys evokes an extraordinary feeling, an inimitable pleasure that stems from creating music. Billy Joel had it right: “My baby grand is all I need.”