My round fingertips brush the smooth white keys, swishing back and forth, creating the perfect sound. A dab of black half notes every now and then, perfecting the already-perfect sound. Songs, notes, melodies, tunes, they all role up into one. The grand finale takes its mark.
Playing the music makes me alive, more alive than the first sunlight springing up at the crack of dawn. More alive then the wild, wild wind that blows throughout the forest. More alive the roaring and crashing waves of the Atlantic when a harsh storm hits their rocky shore. A different kind of alive, different from anything anybody has ever heard of.
The song suddenly stops, and my heart brings in loads of sorrow from the outside. My beautiful song was gone. The sadness of this crime pushed through my head, overtaking my body with the glumness. Bright days went away. Thunder clouds swarmed around my head.
Thoughts smiled inside of me. Thoughts about my piano and how happy I was when I was playing it. Grinning from ear to ear, a sun came out from behind the thunder clouds above my head. My day brightened instantly.
My hands touched the keyboard once more, and, sinking down into the plush melody of the wooden piano, played the tune again. I heard all thoughts in my head before, but now, I hear nothing. Just the beat of my own heart as I do what I love, as I carry on my gift.
The song ended a second time, but this time I wasn't disappointed. In my blank mind came one thought. The sounds of it echoed throughout my head as though it was a hollow stump. 'The sound coming from my fingertips are a gift.'
It was all I could do to keep myself from smiling. The sound was like a river of tears, running down one's face and splashing to the floor, creating the sound of soft bells that brightens their face. Or when the soft rain sprinkles onto your skin. Or when snow flurries fly throughout the sky, dancing in the air.
That day I eventually left my beloved piano, but I will always remmember; 'The sound coming from my fingertips are a gift.'