The Pianist

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The pianist stands.

My legs mimicked the ivory rectangles:
trembling with excitement,
as gentle fingers begin to cascade
across the black and white layout
manipulating the mood in the air.
Over-exaggerated wrist and arm movements
propelling a joyous momentum through the strings,
around the shiny black wood,
into the air,
through the concert hall,
straight to my bones
as the gentle fingers
becoming gradually forceful
slide across the smooth white keys,
quickly onto the raised black surface
and back to the white again.
My arms, grip the armrests tightly as
the crescendo becomes deafeningly beautiful;
instantly wrapping me up
in an exhilarating blanket of captivation.

Suddenly a brief silence so thick you can’t see the stage

And then clash!
the silence is gone
the music enveloping every ounce of my mind
The sound emanating from this instrument
is so loud and so beautiful that it hurts.
The thrill of the music races up and down my spine
just as a tornado races through a town
destroying everything I once believed music to be.
The fingers become gentle again,
cascading up and down the length of the white ivory.
The music pours into my soul like fiery water,
filling up all the dark corners with
light from the glowing flames and
life from the now quenched thirst.
Gradually the gentle fingers softly plunk out the last few notes.
The static electricity in the air disappears and is quickly replaced
with lighting bolts as the entire audience leaps to their feet
madly applauding.

The pianist stands.





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