There was a grand piano at an abandoned old building near the place where he lived. An old Steinway -- slightly out of tune but playable nonetheless. He would go there sometimes -- the doors were all locked but there are other openings. He would play songs. Simple songs, or tunes that he made up, or melodies that he figured out after repeated listening.
He liked how the sound echoed throughout the empty building; how it bounced off the walls and amplified the original sound in slightly out-of-phase manner. Because it indicated the emptiness. He liked the emptiness, the absence of people -- just the piano and he, together. It didn't matter that the dance of the melodies in the air, the beauty of it was never seen by others. If a tree falls in the woods with nobody around, does it make a sound? No. To others the piano and he didn't exist. He liked it. The idea of isolation, the separation, the privacy of his very own world.
The piano was a faithful companion. Every musician knows that an instrument can reflect the musician. He felt that way, too. He was naked when he played; his soul, his emotions, his thoughts are laid bare -- they are dancing in the air, out from his fingertips to the keys to the hammer to the vibrating strings then choreographed in the air, performing complicated dance, bobbing up and down, bouncing off the walls, filling the empty space. Narcissus saw his reflection on the lake, the lake saw its reflection in Narcissus' eyes. The piano was as vast as the lake, it is large enough to accommodate the most detailed of reflections. The piano, too, feeds on its pianist. The lake can see its own beauty from Narcissus' eyes, the hollow piano consumed the overwhelming being of the pianist, filling up its hollowness and transformed it into choreographed movements of melodies gliding in the air.
The piano knows him well. When he was sad, when he was overjoyed, when he was aggravated. The numerous and complex ingredients of emotion were there in the air. The room was a vat, a cauldron and inside the cacophonic potion is bubbling, frothing. Troubles of the heart sometimes surfaced, or were they bubbles of happiness? Stirring up, stirring up, the ingredients reshuffled like a pack of cards. One could pick up the subtlest emotion here, although with all the cards flying you need the luck of a poker player.
When he was running out of songs and energy, the noise died down. The dance ended without encore, the potion is ready. Then the mirror of the soul was closed, ready to be reopened.
He liked how the sound echoed throughout the empty building; how it bounced off the walls and amplified the original sound in slightly out-of-phase manner. Because it indicated the emptiness. He liked the emptiness, the absence of people -- just the piano and he, together. It didn't matter that the dance of the melodies in the air, the beauty of it was never seen by others. If a tree falls in the woods with nobody around, does it make a sound? No. To others the piano and he didn't exist. He liked it. The idea of isolation, the separation, the privacy of his very own world.
The piano was a faithful companion. Every musician knows that an instrument can reflect the musician. He felt that way, too. He was naked when he played; his soul, his emotions, his thoughts are laid bare -- they are dancing in the air, out from his fingertips to the keys to the hammer to the vibrating strings then choreographed in the air, performing complicated dance, bobbing up and down, bouncing off the walls, filling the empty space. Narcissus saw his reflection on the lake, the lake saw its reflection in Narcissus' eyes. The piano was as vast as the lake, it is large enough to accommodate the most detailed of reflections. The piano, too, feeds on its pianist. The lake can see its own beauty from Narcissus' eyes, the hollow piano consumed the overwhelming being of the pianist, filling up its hollowness and transformed it into choreographed movements of melodies gliding in the air.
The piano knows him well. When he was sad, when he was overjoyed, when he was aggravated. The numerous and complex ingredients of emotion were there in the air. The room was a vat, a cauldron and inside the cacophonic potion is bubbling, frothing. Troubles of the heart sometimes surfaced, or were they bubbles of happiness? Stirring up, stirring up, the ingredients reshuffled like a pack of cards. One could pick up the subtlest emotion here, although with all the cards flying you need the luck of a poker player.
When he was running out of songs and energy, the noise died down. The dance ended without encore, the potion is ready. Then the mirror of the soul was closed, ready to be reopened.
