I am many things in this life, and many things define me. But there is one exclusive title that I hold near and dear to my heart. That of A Pianist.
I am not a Pianist because I fill concert halls with my music, but because my hands and fingers have become acquainted with the ivory feel of the black and white keys. I can not boast of prominence and renown, but the Steinway knows my name. A faithful companion in many struggles, it has endured pounding and striking which have not made it somber. Instead, it always volunteers; it waits long-suffering until I need again. It does not agonize in my troubles and or my glee. The piano absorbs them and rebounds them with resilience and vivacity to my ears. It represents me in a realm of feeling and emotions. It converts it all to a universal language showing What I am and How I am without leaving me naked to the eye.
Therapy, healing. To manipulate the keys until song materializes. The thump and thud of the left hand and the savory and syrupy dance of the melody on the right. The cadence and pace just right take you by the hand and walk you through an explanation of What I am and How I am. The highs and lows, the minors and majors. The chromatic verses and those that lose sense and theory altogether. The moments that make you smile and those moments whereby a note can pull a tear in concert. Never pressing, never offending, never forcing. Piercing flesh and bone, fastening to the heart with vigor and clutch. Flushing through ear canals like wild waves to engrain in the brain.
The piano gives itself to A Pianist; in propensity, it lends its all to the function of the instrument. To help, to abide by, to unite with hands and fingers to speak a language throughout the world loved. What I Am is a Pianist. How I am depending on the moment – listen to find out.